


for i am all the subjects that you have

by Eclaire-de-Lune (RoyalHeather)



Series: The Tempest [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, At least one The Princess Bride reference, Body Horror, Brainwashing, Chases, Escapes, Explicit Sexual Content, Fencing, Fighting, Giants, Horses, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Memory Alteration, Miracles, Monsters, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Haircuts, Non-consensual bathing, Persecution of an Ethnic Minority, Revenge, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, Torture, True Love, Vive la Revolution, War Crimes, split personality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:22:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 123,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25641277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/Eclaire-de-Lune
Summary: PART II: CALIBANSeparated by the explosion of theTide's Breath, both Fjord and Caleb must find each other again. Fjord is armed now with powers he could never dream of, and as he gathers a small cadre around him, his determination to recover Caleb only grows stronger. But the prison that surrounds Caleb is more than just bars, and Caleb can barely think about escaping when he must fight purely to hold onto who he is. Fjord will let nothing and no one stop him from finding his lost love, but who he rescues might not be Caleb anymore. He might not even be human.
Relationships: Background Caduceus Clay & Mollymauk Tealeaf, Fjord/Caleb Widogast, Past Caleb Widogast/Astrid/Eodwulf
Series: The Tempest [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680481
Comments: 284
Kudos: 342





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This work deals heavily with abuse and control by authority figures, including brainwashing/gaslighting, implied sexual abuse, and non-sexual violations of privacy and autonomy. Please take care of yourself when reading. 
> 
> Once again, as always, thank you to my fellow writers and Critical Role fans without whom this fic would not exist.

PART II: CALIBAN

> _This island’s mine by Sycorax my mother,  
>  Which thou tak’st from me. When thou cam’st first,  
> Thou strok’st me and made much of me; wouldst give me  
> Water with berries in’t; and teach me how   
> To name the bigger light, and how the less,  
> That burn by day and night; and then I loved thee  
> And showed thee all the qualities o’ the isle,  
> The fresh springs, brine pits, barren place and fertile.  
> Curséd be I that did so! All the charms   
> Of Sycorax – toads, beetles, bats, light on you!  
> For I am all the subjects that you have,  
> Which first was mine own king; and here you sty me  
> In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me  
> The rest o’ th’ island. _

William Shakespeare, _The Tempest_ , Act I, Scene 2, l. 332-344


	2. Act I, Scene 1

The ocean spits Fjord back up onto the beach and he gags and splutters, brine stinging his throat, sand on his hands and chest and face, and he coughs and coughs and coughs until he vomits up seawater onto the sand in front of him, another incoming wave drenching him. Retching, Fjord drags himself up on his elbows, carving a trail through the wet sand. His throat burns, his head throbbing, his vision blurry. His limbs ache as if with fever.

Something washes up beside him. Fjord blinks through the saltwater in his eyelashes, forcing a shaky hand towards it. It’s a sword, straight-bladed towards the hilt but swelling into a curve as it reaches the point. Rough leather wraps the handle, the blade is stained with rust though still wickedly sharp, and barnacles and algae encrust the guard and scatter along the blade.

A yellow eye gleams in the pommel, glassy, slit-pupiled. It rolls towards Fjord.

Trembling, Fjord reaches out for the falchion, but the act saps his strength, and as he grasps the hilt he collapses back into the sand and unconsciousness.

\--

Fjord half-wakes again on the sand, this time on his back, waves lapping at his feet, salt and sand drying on his naked skin. His head hurts more than ever, and he groans. Both his hands are empty.

“Hello?” says a voice above him, female, sweet. Unfamiliar accent. “Are you okay?”

Forcing open his crusty eyes, Fjord squints blearily up at a face. A young woman, blue-skinned, her face heart-shaped with wide violet eyes and freckles dusted across her cheeks and nose, two small dark horns curling above her ears. Her nose wrinkles with concern and curiosity. “Are you a sea sprite?” Fjord tries to say. Only mumbling makes it past his lips.

The young woman straightens, turning. “Bluud!” she shouts, at someone Fjord can’t see. “Come here!”

None of it makes sense to Fjord, and his head aches, and he drifts back into darkness.

\--

In his dreams this time, Fjord walks.

He walks along the floor of the sea, amidst a forest of kelp that stretches up into the midnight depths. The water flows through his lungs as easy as breathing, and the dark tangled shapes of the kelp sway around him. Time passes, slow and heavy.

 _LISTEN_.

Yellow light floods him, bisected by stalks of kelp, as the massive eye snaps open. Tiny schools of dark fish dart away, frightened. Fjord continues to walk along, the eye watching him from the side.

The kelp parts and crumbling stone stairs rise in front of Fjord, spiraling upwards. Without hesitation, Fjord climbs, and as he does the kelp disappears, walls of stone now encircling him. The yellow light now shines from below him, the eye filling the entire bottom of the stairwell. A statue blocks Fjord’s way, humanoid but faceless. Putting his shoulder to the statue, Fjord heaves it to the side, into the depths. It cracks and falls, and as it does, Fjord glimpses its face in the yellow light. Sabian.

He ascends again, spiraling around and around without end. Another statue. Fjord pushes this one aside too, and as it hits the stone stairs, it breaks into pieces, the head tumbling away. Vandran.

Heart pounding, Fjord stops and watches the pieces fall down the tower, his stomach sinking with dread.

_OBEY._

Fjord continues to climb with heavy feet, the yellow light unwavering around him. As the stairs curve around, a third statue comes into view, face obscured by shadow. The dread deepens and Fjord halts, terrified of what awaits. “No,” he says. “I won’t – who is it?”

_OBEY._

The voice reverberates, shaking the stone stairs. “No,” begs Fjord, but he knows. He knows the inevitable. Stepping up again, he reaches out slowly, hoping just to nudge the statue aside. But the second he touches it, it shatters into myriad pieces, drifting off into the water. The face splits down the middle, but Fjord can still recognize the features. Caleb.

Frozen, Fjord can only watch as the chunks of statue slowly fall out of his reach. Caleb. There was something – there was danger, Fjord remembers, alarm pressing up under his sternum. Something happened, Caleb was in danger, what was – what happened –

Where’s Caleb –

Fjord gasps awake in a room he doesn’t recognize, on a bed too soft, and he reaches instinctively under his pillow for his knife but it’s not there, and there’s a stranger sitting next to him –

Flinching back, Fjord stares at the blue tiefling woman who sits on a chair beside his bed, paused in the act of either writing or drawing in a journal. A sunny smile splits her face, and she says, “You’re awake!”

Still breathing heavy, Fjord takes stock of the room around him. The smooth stucco walls are painted a pale coral, and plush rugs partially cover the terra cotta tiles of the floor. Elaborate wooden scrollwork surrounds the door, fluted glass sconces hang from brackets on the walls, and the half-open window above Fjord’s bed lets in sunlight and the smell of the sea and the cries of seagulls in the distance. All of the furniture is well-crafted and lushly upholstered, and the overall atmosphere is overwhelmingly of refined luxury and comfort. “Where –” starts Fjord, and his dry throat catches horribly, and he has to hack and cough to find his voice. “Where am I?” he rasps.

“In the Lavish Chateau,” says the tiefling, folding her journal shut on her lap. She wears a white blouse and a full skirt of purple velvet, and silver ornaments gleam on her horns.

Nicodranus. They had been sailing towards Nicodranus, before –

“My ship!” exclaims Fjord, throwing the covers off; someone has dressed him in clean linen. “Caleb –”

As his feet hit the floor, his head swims horribly and he has to collapse back to the mattress. The tiefling pushes him further down into the pillows. “You need to stay here, you are very weak,” she orders.

Fjord’s head spins too much to argue as he tries to piece together how the hell he got from the _Tide’s Breath_ to here. “How long have I been here?”

“We found you… three days ago,” says the tiefling. A faint note of smugness creeps into her voice. “I’ve been healing you.”

“You were on the beach,” Fjord says slowly. _He_ was on the beach. He washed up on the shore, coughing up seawater and clutching a strange sword. Why was he on the beach?

The blood drains from Fjord’s face as he remembers an explosion and sinking deeper into the ocean as he reached for the yellow eye. “No,” he whispers, unable to wrap his mind around the obvious truth, panic welling inside him. “No no no no no –”

Watching him curiously, the tiefling says, “Are you okay?”

If Fjord survived, he can’t have been the only one (not unless Uk’atoa saved you, whispers a tiny voice in the back of his mind). “Did you find anyone else?” he demands, grabbing the tiefling’s wrist, and her eye widen. “On the beach, did anyone else wash up? Did you see a man, human, copper hair, kind of – kind of scruffy –” Kind of scruffy, with blue eyes that burn right through him and bones as sharp and hungry as a hawk and long, clever, gentle fingers –

“No,” says the tiefling, regretful and a little confused, and she leans back subtly from his grasp. “Is this Caleb?”

Fjord stares at her, throat tightening. “How do you know that?” he manages.

“You were saying his name. In your sleep.” Her violet eyes are all innocence – maybe too much so. “My name is Jester, you know. Since you didn’t ask.”

“Jester,” repeats Fjord stupidly. “My name is Fjord,” because Captain Vandran taught him to always be nice to the ladies. “Where am I, again?”

Jester smiles brightly. “The Lavish Chateau!” she says. “In Nicodranus.” 

Lavish Chateau. Fjord knows that name. It’s a hotel and brothel, the kind the crew mentioned in their fantasies of what they would do and where they would go once they finally retired rich. His cheeks heat as he comes to the obvious conclusion about the pretty young woman in front of him. “And are you, a, uh – uh – a companion?”

Throwing her head back, Jester laughs a silvery, tinkling laugh. “No, silly!” she says. “My mom is.” She gets to her feet with a smirk. “I’ll go tell her you’re awake,” and she leaves the room.

With the door closed behind her, Fjord slumps back into the pillows with a groan, closing his eyes against the pounding headache. He can’t fathom it. The _Tide’s Breath,_ blown apart and sunk. How? Why?

Surely he’s not the only survivor, Fjord tells himself. He can’t be.

He _can’t._

\--

Later, the demands of his body drag him into the attached bathroom. After relieving himself, Fjord splashes cool water on his face from a porcelain washbasin shaped like a giant fluted scallop shell, and turns to leave. His reflection in the mirror by the door stops him short.

His eyes are yellow.

Fjord leans in closer, sliding one hand over his stubbled jaw. His eyes are definitely, unmistakably, _alien-ly_ yellow, bright gold shining against the green of his skin. The slits of his pupils belong to a stranger.

“Oh, fuck,” whispers Fjord.

Memory returns to him, reaching out for the orb as he sunk through the depths, and then the same yellow eye gleaming from the hilt of a sword, half-sunk in the sand beside him. There had been a sword, hadn’t there? Avantika had had one like that, and then the Plank King claimed it, and then…

Fjord’s headache throbs, and he braces himself against the wall at arm’s distance. A new cut marks his face, an X-shaped slice above his left eyebrow. Healing already, but Fjord can tell, it’s going to leave a scar. The skin under his eyes is haggard, his cheeks sallow under his ragged dark stubble. The streak of gray in his hair has grown more pronounced.

The eyes of Uk’atoa look back at him out of his face.

Fjord has to breathe heavy and lean back against the wall again as his head swims for a moment. Yellow eyes, like the Plank King. Like Avantika.

A jolt of adrenaline shoots up Fjord’s spine and he snaps his head up, staring at himself in the mirror again, a wild light in his eyes. Turning around, he stretches his hand out towards the wash basin, sunlight glowing faintly through the fine white ceramic. The air between him and the basin quivers with eldritch energy.

_LEARN._

Fjord clenches his fist and brings it up.

Water surges up and out of the basin, balling in the air before splashing across the elegantly-tiled floor. Heart pounding with adrenaline, Fjord stares down at the puddle on the floor, his breath quickening. His fingers, still tight in a fist, tingle with power.

There _had_ been a sword.

Closing his eyes, Fjord pictures the weapon that had washed up on the beach beside him. Long, curved blade, rusted and growing barnacles and algae, but with a sharpened blade. A yellow eye in the pommel, watching him.

Something solid nudges into Fjord’s other palm, a cold thrill running down his spine. He closes his hand around a leather-wrapped hilt.

The falchion appears in his hand with a spray of brine, seaweed hanging from its guard, the yellow eye shining straight at Fjord. Fjord’s heart beats wildly in his chest, a strange excitement quivering in his gut, and for a second he hears a word echoing in a vast, unknowable tone.

_CONSUME._


	3. Act I, Scene 2

**Several months later**

Algar Dyomin stares up in Fjord at horror from the water he lies in, clothes sodden, clutching his bleeding stump wrist to his chest. “Who the fuck are you?” he whispers, eyes wide in the dim blue light of the aqueducts underneath Nicodranus.

Already wearing Algar’s face as an illusion, Fjord mimics Algar’s terrified expression and voice. “ ‘Who the fuck are you?’ ”

Any remaining color drains from Algar’s face, and his lip wobbles. “Look, please, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die down here. I don’t want to wash up in the middle of the shore,” he begs.

Despite himself, a grim smile curls Fjord’s lips. “You know what I’m feeling like, Jester? That I just need to get out of this city and never come back, go somewhere far away.” Jester tilts her head, a mischievous smile lighting her eyes as she catches on. “I need to go, in a boat, and just _go._ ”

Jester grins wickedly down at Algar, standing beside Fjord. “I think that sounds like a _great_ idea.”

Swallowing hard, Algar nods, eyes flicking nervously between her and Fjord. “Yeah, that sounds – that sounds great –”

“Maybe a haircut, maybe a new name, too,” says Fjord. Casually, he shoots a bolt of greenish energy at Algar’s severed hand floating in the foot or so of water in the chamber, blasting it into pieces, and Algar whimpers. “What do you think?”

“I think he looks like a Eustace,” muses Jester. “Or maybe a Clarence.”

“Eustace Clarence, now there’s a name you might actually deserve.” Fjord twirls the falchion in his hand menacingly, the light glinting on the yellow eye in the pommel.

Algar nods again, more desperately, sweat beading on his face. “Right, yeah, I’ll go. I’ll leave immediately. Just please let me go.”

“All depends on how we decide to act as we get out of here,” says Fjord genially. “I’m sure you know a very safe way to the surface, yes?”

“Same way I come in every day. Yeah, I’ll show you out.” Algar starts to shakily climb to his feet.

“Ah-ah-ah, now hang on a second, we’re not leavin’ just yet,” says Fjord, pointing the falchion at Algar, who gulps and sits back down with a splash. “First I need to have a chat with _you,_ ” and he turns and points with his free hand at the marid, the iron bracelet shining dully on his own wrist.

Standing half in the shadows, Xundi flattens his wide flat mouth in an expression of disapproval. “I would ask that you let me go,” he says flatly.

“Now, now, of course I will, I just need you to do somethin’ for me first.” Fjord keeps his tone friendly, not needing to raise his voice for it to echo faintly off the damp walls and arching stone roof of the subterranean tunnels. “The sooner you do that, the sooner you’ll be free. I never like to see a powerful creature put under the boot of somebody else for their gain.” Just a hint of warning curls around the edges of his voice.

Xundi’s face grows even stonier. “What would you like me to do?”

Fjord holds himself steady to disguise his mounting apprehension that maybe _this_ is it, maybe this is the time he finally gets a lead, some scrap of information – “I’m lookin’ for a man,” he says. “Human. Medium height, skinny, ginger hair, blue eyes – looks like this.” He changes the magical mask on his face to look like Caleb. “Goes by Caleb Widogast, or maybe Bren Ermendrud. Probably dressed kind of ragged, might have a cat with him, or a hawk. There was a shipwreck some months ago near here, he might’ve washed up in the area. I need to know where he is.”

“He’s lost his wizard,” explains Jester helpfully.

In the dim light, the marid’s eyes are like wet stones, dark blue and glassy. “And if there is only a body?”

Hand tightening involuntarily on the falchion, Fjord sucks in a stifled breath, illusory face dropping. “Find him,” he orders, glaring at Xundi. The bracelet on his wrist warms and vibrates briefly.

“Your wish is my command,” says Xundi, inflectionless. He turns, water swirling, and disappears into a churning column of water that collapses into the standing pool.

If there is any mercy, thinks Fjord, please let him find _something._ Sighing, he turns and finds Jester crouched in front of Algar, carefully painting on his face. “What the hell are you doin’?”

“Disguising him,” she says brightly, glancing up at Fjord. The hem of her skirt floats on the water like flower petals. “So he can lead us back up and out.”

As her work stands currently, Algar mostly just looks older and dirtier, but Fjord’s seen Jester pull off some pretty convincing illusions before. “All right,” he says. “Eustace, any traps, contraptions we should be aware of as we’re heading out?”

Trying not to move his face under Jester’s brushes, Algar manages, “No, no traps. There are some lockdown failsafes, but it’s –” he stops, swallows hard “– it’s not much help at the moment.”

“Right.” Fjord glances around the chamber and the dark tunnels leading off it. “Well, Eustace, why don’t you show us the way out?”

They head through damp passageways and up stone stairs until they reach Algar’s office, where Jester forges a very incriminating letter about how Algar let the marid go just to screw over the city. As they escort Algar down to the docks, the sky begins to tint gold with a rising sun; they secure him passage on a ship, waiting until it disembarks under the dawn to make sure he doesn’t give them the slip. 

Fjord’s body aches with the aftermath of the fight, bruises blooming on his skin, and his head and hands buzz a little with the result of too much spellcasting on an empty stomach. “All right,” sighs Fjord, glancing up at the mysterious tower that looms over the docks. Some day, he’s going to check it out. Some day. “Let’s go back.”

Nicodranus is just beginning to awaken as he and Jester make their way back to the Lavish Chateau, fishmongers hauling in their catch, bakers setting out fresh loaves, shopkeepers beginning to throw open their blinds and roll up their awnings. Still damp and disheveled in his combat leathers, Fjord catches more than a few curious glances from various passerby.

“Look,” says Jester, pointing. She got off easier than Fjord, with only a few scrapes and tears in her clothing to show for the struggle. “Oh _no._ The steam is getting thinner.”

Fjord squints at the columns of steam that spiral up over the industrial sectors of Nicodranus, which up until a few hours ago were powered by Xundi’s control over the waters below. “Huh,” he says. “Guess they are.”

“I hope we didn’t like, cripple the city or anything –”

“Nah, they’ll figure somethin’ out.” Fjord trudges along the avenue, catching a whiff of fresh baked goods, and his stomach rumbles. “Do you think we went too hard on Algar?”

“Hm?” Jester has pulled a lollipop out of her satchel and is unwrapping the waxed paper from around the candy. “Why do you say that?”

Fjord’s not really sure, except the nagging feeling that he enjoyed watching Algar squirm a little _too_ much. Would Vandran have done the same? “Just seems like things escalated kind of quickly.”

Sucking on the lollipop, Jester considers. “Well, we didn’t kill him,” she says thoughtfully. “And he was threatening my mama, you know. He was kind of a shitty person.”

“Yeah.” Fjord heaves out a heavy breath, trying to banish the doubts with it. Caleb probably would have set something on fire to intimidate him, he thinks. Maybe had something cutting to say as well.

As they reach the Chateau, Fjord wants nothing more than to take a hot bath and collapse on his bed. But when he and Jester enter the front hall of the Chateau, Marion is waiting for them, wrapped in a plush robe. “Jester!” she says, hurrying forward with clear worry on her face, and takes Jester’s hands. “There you are! I was so worried – why are you _wet_?”

Dismay crosses Jester’s face. “Oh, Mom, we were going to get back before you woke up –”

A figure shifts behind Marion, stepping forward. “Ah, shit, is that my fault you’re up?” says a voice that sends Fjord rocketing back to Darktow and the Plank King’s courtroom. “My bad.”

The falchion manifests in Fjord’s hand, splashing seawater onto the tiles and Marion’s robe. “Yes,” says Marion delicately, but stress tightens her voice. “Jester, Fjord, you have a visitor.”

Fjord glowers at Expositor Beauregard. “What the hell are _you_ doin’ here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” says the Expositor haughtily, folding her arms across her chest.

In between them, still holding Jester’s hands, Marion looks extremely uncomfortable. “Mama, why are you down here, anyway?” says Jester, with a pointed glance at Beau. “Where’s Bluud? Where are the servants?”

“I… I got up early, without them,” whispers Marion to Jester. “I had a bad feeling. About you.”

Jester exchanges a glance with Fjord, who sighs and disappears the falchion. “Let’s get a room and talk,” he says. “Expositor.”

With a sly smile, Expositor Beauregard says, “I think we should.”

\--

They take one of the private parlors off the main performance hall, Jester pushing her way in alongside Fjord. “Who’re you?” asks Expositor Beauregard, cocking an eyebrow.

“I’m Jester, I’m Fjord’s friend.” Jester plops down at the table, frowning at Expositor Beauregard. “Who are _you?_ ”

Expositor Beauregard shrugs off her traveling cloak and lets her rucksack and staff fall to the carpeted floor. “Expositor Beauregard, from the Cobalt Soul,” she says, dropping into one of the plush chairs. “So. Fjord.”

Remaining in the doorway, Fjord leans against it, crossing his arms. “Expositor.” This particular parlor has walls painted a marine blue, the furniture upholstered in navy velvet and gold brocade curtains and pillows festooning the room. Two round skylights let in the rosy dawn.

“Gotta admit, this is a swanky place,” says Expositor Beauregard, looking around her at the small parlor. She wears the same blue-green traveling monkish clothes Fjord remembers, although they’ve acquired some wear and tear. “Not where I was expecting to you find you.”

Her voice grates like rough sand and Fjord manages a tight smile, a headache beginning to gnaw behind his eyes. “And why would you be lookin’ for me in the first place?”

Lips curling up like she was waiting for him to ask, Expositor Beauregard says, “Can I see that sword of yours?”

Fjord stares her down. “No.”

The Expositor narrows her eyes back at him.

In the tension between them, Jester sighs and slumps on the table. “You guys, I’m getting pastry, I’m really hungry,” she says. “Does anyone else want anything?”

Not breaking her gaze away from Fjord, Expositor Beauregard says, “You got any bacon?”

“Oh, yeah, the kitchen has plenty.”

There’s only one thing Fjord can think of that would bring Expositor Beauregard back into his orbit. “The Plank King sent you, didn’t he.”

Tilting her head, Expositor Beauregard frowns, Jester rising and crossing past her to head towards the kitchens. “What? No. Why would I –”

“Aren’t you his friend or somethin’, you were at the trial –”

“ _No_ , I was just – he’s got some kind of weird favor or deal with the Cobalt Soul, I don’t fucking know,” says the Expositor, irritation breaking through her cool and careless persona, which Fjord finds perversely rewarding. “But I’m – I’m investigating something else. Sort of. It’s kind of related.” She glares up at him. “I’m tracking the eyes of Uk’atoa.”

Fjord has the good sense to keep his mouth shut despite _Oh, shit_ reverberating in his brain. “Uhhh-huh,” he says slowly. “Right. The eyes. Yeah. Yep.”

Expositor Beauregard raises her eyebrows.

Sighing, Fjord rubs his face with one hand. The temptation to lie to the Expositor is strong, but he’s not sure how far that’ll get him. She’s met the Plank King, she’s seen the falchion in his hand, he doesn’t have a good bluff…

Then again, maybe she has information on where Caleb is. And he can’t exactly afford to pass that up.

Fjord crosses to the table and pulls out the chair opposite from Expositor Beauregard, sitting down. “All right,” he says. “Expositor –”

“Call me Beau,” she says, shrugging.

“Beau. Okay.” Fjord folds his arms and leans on the table, considering his next words. “It’s true, I do have an orb. And I’d be more than happy to talk to you about it. But this is a very powerful secret that came at a high cost to me, and I need somethin’ in return.”

Tilting her head, Beau eyes him shrewdly, fiddling with what looks like a small carved jade token in one hand. “Gold?”

“No,” says Fjord. “Information. I’m looking for someone.”

Her blue eyes narrow. “Who?”

“One of my crew, you saw him at the trial.” Fjord folds his arms again. “The human. Caleb Widogast.”

Beau frowns for a second, and then her expression clears with recognition. “Let me guess,” she says. “He was on the ship when it exploded, and you haven’t seen him since.”

Uneasiness prickles along the back of Fjord’s neck. “How do you know about that?”

Shrugging one shoulder, Beau smiles crookedly. “It’s my job.”

“Right.” Fjord draws himself together, ignoring his headache and pinching stomach. Where the hell is Jester and breakfast, anyway? “Yeah. I need to know where he is. Find him, and I’ll tell you about Uk’atoa.”

Beau laces her fingers together and fixes Fjord with a determined expression. “Now, I hope you understand how important this is for the Cobalt Soul,” she says. “We have… certain information that the entity of Uk’atoa is attempting to break free in the Material Plane. The more forthcoming you are, and quickly, the sooner we can work to stop him –”

“Sure,” says Fjord. “Absolutely. Then you better get to work on findin’ Caleb real fast, hadn’t you?”

Irritation flashes in Beau’s eyes, and she gestures frustratedly. “Do you even know how long it took me to find _you_ , and I haven’t heard anything about your Caleb –”

 _Your Caleb,_ echoes Fjord’s brain, pleased, and he determinedly keeps his expression stubborn and blank. “Better start looking.”

She huffs at him, slapping the polished wood table with her palm. “C’mon, man, don’t you want to stop Uk’atoa at all –”

“I don’t give a damn about Uk’atoa.” Fjord lets each of his words drop to the table like single, heavy stones. “I just want to find my –” He stops, words rising to his tongue, none of them quite right. Crewmate. Wizard. Friend. Lover. Partner. “Caleb,” he settles on at last. “I just want to find him.”

Beau gives him a look like she’s debating a swift right hook. “And how do I know you won’t get out of here the second I leave?”

“You don’t,” says Fjord, having neither the patience nor inclination to be anything but blunt. “Are we done here?”

Spluttering, Beau says, “I – I _guess –_ ”

“Good,” and Fjord gets to his feet and turns and leaves. He ignores Beau protesting that he come back and instead heads back into the main hall of the Lavish Chateau, out into the courtyard, and crosses the smooth flagstones to the long, low building tucked to the side of the complex. Only a few other guards are awake, strapping on armor as they emerge; most of the Chateau’s hired protection wakes late and sleeps late along with the companions they protect. A couple nod to Fjord as he passes, and he salutes back.

After entering, he makes a quick stop at the mess hall for flatbread and cheese before heading to his room, one of many doors along the corridor of guards’ quarters. As he approaches, his roommate, Otto, exits the room. “Hey, Fjord,” he says, and taking in Fjord’s disheveled state, grins. “Late night?”

“You could say that,” Fjord snorts.

Otto makes a suggestive clicking noise with his tongue and laughs before heading in the direction of mess.

Officially, Fjord was hired on as one of the Chateau’s complement of guards. Unofficially, he’s become Jester’s private bodyguard, accompanying her around the Chateau and on midnight excursions in the city. The prevailing narrative among the guards in on the open secret of Jester’s existence is that the two of them are romantically involved; after attempting to protest this several times, Fjord learned his denials only confirmed their belief. Now he just lets the rumor be. Won’t matter once he leaves this city, anyway.

Once in the small, plain room, Fjord carefully shuts the door behind him before kneeling beside the single bed on his side of the room. Prying up the loose floorboard underneath, he pulls out the small iron box and unlocks it with the key he keeps on a chain around his neck.

Copper and silver coins gleam inside, and a few gold. Fjord deposits the pouch of gold coins he stole from Algar’s office, counting them out carefully. Darktow is a dangerous island not on any of the usual trade routes, and passage there does not come cheap. The stipend the Chateau pays him in addition to room and board is generous, but even so. The gold from Algar makes a big difference.

Fjord’s not ready to abandon Nicodranus yet, though. It’s the nearest city to where the _Tide’s Breath_ sank; it’s where he washed up. If there’s any clue as to what happened to Caleb, he’s going to find it here.

\--

To his dismay, Beau does not leave the Lavish Chateau. She doesn’t stay there, at least, but she keeps popping up and sticking her nose into things, trying to weasel information out of Fjord. “Did you know there was a warrant out for Caleb’s arrest?” she says, falling into step beside Fjord as he crosses the courtyard a couple of afternoons later.

“Yeah, and I bribed my way into every jail in this city as soon as I could, he wasn’t in any of ‘em,” retorts Fjord, striding across the courtyard. Marion’s performing tonight, which means a full house and all hands on deck. “That all you got?”

Beau stares at him with a clear air of expectation.

Fjord sighs. “When I said I didn’t have the eye, during the Plank King’s trial, I wasn’t lyin’,” he says flatly. “I didn’t have an orb on me. Caleb had one.”

This does not impress Beau. “That all _you_ got?”

Pointedly raising his eyebrows, Fjord does not say anything else.

“Ugh.” Beau rolls her eyes before stomping away.

She comes back the next day, this time as Fjord keeps idle watch while Jester draws in one of the hidden gardens behind the Chateau. This time Beau climbs up and over the sandstone wall, landing lightly on a patch of grass. Fjord jumps to his feet, instinctively summoning the falchion, and Jester says, “You!”

“You got a problem with the door?” demands Fjord.

“This way’s easier.” Staff slung across her back, Beau steps on to the red gravel path and looks around at the small, high-walled garden, with vines and shrubs climbing up the stones, the tilled beds where various bulbs and flowers lie dormant, and the small tinkling fountain in the center. “Hi, Jester.”

“Hi…” says Jester cautiously, from her seat on one of the cushioned benches. “Are you here to talk to Fjord?”

“Yeah, found out more about your Caleb.” Beau stays in motion, circling around the garden, running her fingers through the fountain trickles, looking up at the looming shape of the Chateau. “Remember that warrant I mentioned? It’s not active anymore. Looks like maybe it wasn’t for a while.”

Fjord frowns, trying to piece this together. “So you mean… they did arrest him?”

Shrugging, Beau says, “Not necessarily. Could just mean they stopped looking for him.”

“Because he’s dead?” whispers Jester, eyes very wide.

This time Beau’s shrug is even more deliberately casual. “It’s a possibility.”

“I’ll believe it when I see a body,” growls Fjord. A chill wind blows in from the sea, the sky above them gray with clouds.

For once serious, Beau nods, pausing in her pacing. “Yeah,” she says softly. “You got anything for me?”

Sitting back down on the bench beside Jester, Fjord leans back, folding his arms across his chest. “I might still have one of the orbs on me,” he drawls. “On my person.”

“I knew that already,” snaps Beau, and Fjord shrugs. “What’re you drawing?”

This is to Jester, who flips her sketchbook around to reveal of Beau, all lean angles, captured mid-prowl like a disgruntled tiger. “You,” she says, with a pert challenge.

“Heh,” chuckles Beau, a lopsided grin pulling on her face. “I kinda like that.”

Jester positively beams. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

\--

Sometimes when Fjord lies in his bed at night, he thinks about the crew he left at the bottom of the ocean. Divastiss and Maken and Emi and Blue, and Nott and Yasha and Molly, and the new hires too. Whether they actually drowned when the ship sank, he doesn’t know, but he dreams of them all the same: tangled in seaweed with bloated, pale faces and hollowed-out eyes.

Other nights he lies awake, unable to lose himself to unconsciousness, the monumental injustice of losing his ship, his crew, his family, not once but twice in a span of months wracking him from the inside out until he has to bare his teeth in a silent scream, holding himself still and quiet so as not to wake Otto in his bunk across the room.

And some nights he thinks about Caleb, and only Caleb, because if he can only recover one person at a time then Caleb it must be, and saving one man is doable. He thinks about Caleb, and the way his lips felt against his skin, and the way he trembled under Fjord’s hands. He thinks about the look in Caleb’s eyes when Fjord said he hoped Caleb would trust him. He does not let himself imagine what Caleb will look like when Fjord finds him again, though he desperately wants to, for fear of setting himself up for disappointment.

And then – every so often – on nights when the moon is darkest – Fjord dreams of a great yellow eye, restless and hungry, and a deep voice urging him to action with words he cannot remember when he wakes.

\--

As Fjord crosses the courtyard of the Chataeau, he passes by one of the wide stone water troughs for carriage horses, and the water surges and bubble upward. Fjord jumps, whipping around with falchion in hand, as the portly figure of Xundi rises up out of the trough. It is midday, and the various people moving through the courtyard stop and stare. A very expensively-dressed lady gasps, pausing in the act of descending from her carriage.

“I have word of the man you seek,” pronounces Xundi, without regard for the staff and visitors of the Lavish Chateau who gawk at him. “A naiad who I know –”

“Yeah, yeah, can we talk about in inside or somethin’?” says Fjord, feeling unnervingly visible, his heart pounding with surprise and apprehension.

“– who resides in a stream within the Dwendalian Empire, saw a man matching your description several months ago,” continues Xundi implacably. “He was traveling with several others, in a wagon or carriage. She saw his face when he knelt by the stream and drank from it.”

Everything else disappears to the trumpets sounding in Fjord’s head. _He’s alive! He’s alive! He’s alive!_ “Did your friend see where he was headin’?” Fjord manages, chest tight.

“North, she believes.”

“Did she –” Fjord’s brain buzzes with a thousand questions he wants to ask, where was this, when was this, how did Caleb look, who was he with – “Did he look okay?

Xundi snorts. “I do not know, I was not there. All I know is what I have said to you.” He looks down very pointedly at the iron bracelet on Fjord’s wrist. “I have done as you requested.”

The weight of the many eyes on him prickle Fjord uncomfortably. “All right,” he says slowly, unclasping the bracelet, and hands it to Xundi. “Like I said. I hate to see somebody under another person’s boot.”

Taking the bracelet, Xundi stretches his mouth in a wide, immensely satisfied smile. Tucking his arms in around himself, he whirls into a column of water and once again disappears with a splash, just as Beau runs up and shouts, “Wait, wait, hold on!”

Panting, hair falling out of her top knot, she skids to a halt beside Fjord. “What’d he say?” she demands. Not nearly as composed as her appearance at the trial, Fjord notes smugly. 

“Inside,” mutters Fjord, glancing around at everyone staring curiously at him and Beau. “Jester should hear this too. C’mon.”

He leads Beau inside the Chateau, up the stairs, and to Jester’s suite, pushing past a couple of companions who eye Beau quizzically. Stopping at Jester’s door, Fjord is about to knock when he hears voices. He frowns, putting his ear to the door; one voice is definitely Jester, but the other is unfamiliar, low and drawling and unmistakably male. Fjord frowns, unable to make out any words. “Jester?” he says, and raps with his knuckles on the door.

Both voices stop. Feet patter, and Fjord steps back from the door just as Jester opens it, the room behind her empty. “Fjord!” she says. “What’s up? Oh, hi, Beau.” She smiles.

“ ‘Sup.” Beau gives her a nonchalant nod.

“Is there…” Fjord cranes his head to peer over Jester’s shoulder, trying to look for someone hidden in a corner or hastily placed furniture, but nothing looks out of the ordinary. “There someone in there with you?”

“Hmm? Oh, I was just talking to the Traveler,” says Jester.

“Right,” says Fjord slowly. Despite Jester’s frequent reassurances to the contrary and her magical powers, he’d always assumed the Traveler was imaginary. “He was in here. Talkin’ to you?”

“Mm-hm.” Conspiratorially, Jester leans in and whispers, “Maybe someday you can talk to him too.”

“Who’s – who’s the Traveler,” says Beau, from behind Fjord. “What’s happening?”

Fjord sighs. “I gotta talk to you, can I come in?”

“Yes yes yes, of course!” Jester steps back to let him in, Beau following uninvited. “What is it?”

Too full of nervous energy to sit, Fjord paces the perimeter of the sitting room, its walls painted in vibrant murals by Jesters’ hand. “I have a lead,” he says to Jester, once she closes the door. “On Caleb. Finally.”

“Oh!” Jester’s eyes widen, her tail curving around her legs. “Where is he?”

“In the Empire.” Fjord rubs at his face. “Xundi has a friend who saw him, by a stream. He’s traveling north, with some others, he doesn’t know who.” It’s good that he’s not on his own, Fjord supposes, although a weird little prick of jealousy stings him. Who are these others? Wizards, maybe? A new band Caleb might find preferable to whatever remnant of a crew Fjord can scrape up? “More than that I don’t know.”

“And this was… when?” says Beau, frowning. “Just now?”

“No, a few months ago.” Wiggling his fingers nervously, Fjord glances out the round window at the blue sky outside. “I don’t know… Shit. I don’t know where he would be now. But I know he survived the explosion.” The two-ton weight he’s been carrying on his chest for so long has gone, and Fjord takes in a long, deep inhale. “I have to leave and try and find him, as soon as possible.”

“Hang on, hang on,” splutters Beau, “what about Uk’atoa –”

“You’re welcome to come along.” Fjord appraises Beau; he can see both her Cobalt Soul connections and combat training as a monk coming in handy. “But I’m goin’. No argument.” He keeps his voice steely.

Beau narrows her eyes, sizing him up right back. “All right,” she says coolly, lifting her chin, and folds her arms tightly.

“Welllll…” Jester leans back against the door, hands behind her back. “So all you know is he’s in the Empire, somewhere?”

“Presumably.”

An impish twinkle lights Jester’s eyes. “Then I think it’s time we go visit my dad.”


	4. Act I, Scene 3

Dressed for traveling in dark clothes and leather armor, Fjord leads the gelding he purchased from a nearby stable through the courtyard of the Lavish Chateau, approaching the nondescript carriage to which four bay horses have been harnessed. As Fjord draws near, Bluud nods to him, the massive, black-furred minotaur loading a large trunk onto the back of the carriage.

“Fjord!” Jester pokes her head out of the carriage, her shoulders covered by a dark green travelling cloak. “Are you ready?”

“Yup.” Fjord slings his saddlebags off his shoulder and onto his mount, a long-legged, gray-white courser. It snorts, stomping a back hoof on the flagstones and swishing its tail to chase away flies. “You?”

She leans out of the window further to look over at Bluud, who gives a rope a final tug to test the knot, and nods and snorts. “Ready.”

Fjord puts his foot in the stirrup and swings up and onto his mount, gathering the reins and settling his weight as his horse takes a couple of steps underneath him. He had to learn to ride when he joined the Chateau guard; truth be told, it intimidated him at first, horses being such an unknown quantity. But turns out, you respect a horse and treat it right, and it’ll take care of you in return. Not so different from ships, in that regard.

That don’t mean there aren’t some horses that are idiot bastards, though.

The carriage creaks and sways ominously as Bluud swings his bulk up and into the driver’s seat. Gathering the reins in his hands, he clucks to the horses, who snort and start forward with a jangling of harness leather and buckles. Leaning out of the carriage window, Jester waves goodbye to Marion, who blows her kisses from the Chateau doorway.

Fjord follows after, through the broad wooden gates of the Chateau courtyard, and as he enters the street he sees Beau, seated on a dark brown-black mule and waiting for the carriage to pass, staff slung across her back. “Howdy,” says Fjord.

“Sup.”

As she falls in beside him, her mule pins its ears back and nips at Fjord’s mount, who squeals and kicks. “Control your damn animal,” Fjord snaps, keeping a firm hand on the reins.

Beau is unrepentant. “Sorry.”

They make their way out of Nicodranus under a silver-clouded sky, the air chill and damp, the various citizens wrapped in scarves and cloaks as they make their daily way around the city. At one point Fjord glances back over his shoulder at the industrial sector; the steam, while stronger than it was after breaking Xundi away from Algar, is still not at its full volume.

Shrugging, Fjord turns back to the road ahead.

By midday they are well into the countryside, soft rolling hills on either side of the wide road, the sea a blue smudge on the horizon to the west. They stop for lunch, sitting in a small circle and eating flatbread smeared with soft white goats-milk cheese, spiced cured meats, and dried figs as the horses graze. “Fjord,” says Jester, from her perch on the tail seat of the carriage. “What’s your horse’s name?”

“Uh…” Fjord glances at his horse, who is currently tearing bunches of grass out of the ground. “I dunno, I didn’t ask. At the stable, I mean.”

“Are you going to name him, then?”

Swallowing down a mouthful of fig, Fjord says, “I hadn’t planned to…”

“ _Fjord,_ ” says Jester. It comes out in three syllables, _Fuh-or-duh._ “He has to have a name!” Beau, seated cross-legged on a large, flat rock, watches the exchange with amusement.

Considering his horse, Fjord says the first thing that comes to mind. “Shelby.”

“ _Shelby?_ ” snorts Beau.

“Yeah,” retorts Fjord, affronted. “Why, what’d you call yours?” The mule eyes him with what he swears is malice.

Beau looks slightly abashed. “Crapper.”

A twinkle in his glassy brown eyes, Bluud chuckles bass from where he reclines on the ground. “A good name,” he rumbles.

A bird passes, high overhead, the clear cry of a hawk reaching down to them. Fjord squints up at the dark shape against the pale clouds, like a glyph he doesn’t know the meaning of yet, and restlessness squirms up his spine. “We should go,” he says, standing.

The other three look up at him curiously. “Why?” says Beau. “Something wrong?”

All Fjord knows is that he’s months behind Caleb. “No. We just need to keep moving.”

Beau and Jester exchange puzzled glances. But something in his tone must convince them, because a few minutes later they get back on the road.

\--

On the second night of their journey, with the Wuyun Gates another day away, a small cluster of buildings approach along the road. In the slowly-darkening sunset, the lit windows cast golden squares of light into the gloom. “What’s that?” says Fjord, riding alongside the carriage.

“Travelers’ rest,” says Bluud, his body swaying with the movement of the carriage. “That big building in the middle is an inn. We can stay there tonight.”

The inn is built of wood, two-storied, pitch-roofed, and reminds Fjord achingly of Darktow. Spurring Shelby into a trot, he gets ahead of the coach, watching the road ahead for any movement. Two other riders have come up to the inn and are dismounting, a third dark figure stepping forward to take their horses.

In the gathering night, power whispers around Fjord, tingling in his fingers. Not that he needs to use it, of course. Just a precaution. He catches Bluud staring at him and realizes a faint, sickly green glow hangs around his hands. “It’s nothin’,” says Fjord, feigning casualness and banishing the glow. “Don’t worry about it.”

Bluud rumbles unhappily and turns back to the road. Gathering the reins in his left hand, Fjord urges Shelby into a lope, the carriage horses snorting behind him as they pick up the pace. He can hear Beau swearing at Crapper as she tries to get the mule to move faster, and then a sharp _smack_.

As they draw up among the outbuildings and into the circle of yellow light surrounding the inn, the smell of roast meat drifts through the air along with the muffled chatter of the travelers inside. Fjord swings off of Shelby and stretches his legs; while this journey isn’t his first time on a horse, or second, or third, it’s certainly the longest, and challenges his body in a way the sea never did. His thighs are _sore_.

Bluud climbs down from his seat while Jester steps out of the carriage, shaking out her skirt. “The apple pie here is _really good_ ,” she says to Fjord, rearranging her cloak. “Hopefully there are still enough apples left from the harvest that they are making it…”

Beau walks forward with Crapper’s reins in hand, frowning around her. “Where do we put our horses? Is there a stable?”

“I can take them,” says a quiet voice behind Fjord: a voice he _knows._ He damn near trips over his own feet turning around to face Yasha, dressed in dark grey leathers, her hair matted and braided, as she approaches the traveling party. Her bicolored eyes widen in surprise, mouth dropping slightly. “Captain Fjord? You’re alive?”

“ _Yasha,_ ” says Fjord, lunging forward on instinct to grab her by the arms, to feel her reassuringly solid under his hands. “You made it?”

A half-smile twists her face. “Barely,” she says, and tilts her head. The light from the inn windows falls across her face, illuminating a burn scar that stretches along the whole left side of her face, down her neck, and beneath her collar, healed but not old. “It was… it was a strange story, I will tell you later. Nott is here, too.”

While Fjord reels slightly, trying to process the coincidence, Beau slinks forward. “Hey,” she says. “I know you. You were on Darktow.”

Recognition glints in Yasha’s eyes. “I saw you there too.” The two women size each other up, Beau trying not to look impressed and failing.

“Oh,” says Jester, who approaches on Fjord’s other side. “You must be Yasha!” Behind her, Bluud grunts as he offloads her trunks from the carriage.

Raising a quizzical eyebrow, Yasha looks over at Fjord. “Right, Jester, Yasha, Yasha, Jester,” he says. “Jester was there when I, uh, was washed up on shore, she helped me get back to health. We’re on our way to Zadash now, to see her father.”

Yasha raises both of her eyebrows. Glancing around, Fjord leans back in close to her. “I’m lookin’ for Caleb,” he says quietly. “I have reason to believe he’s north, in the Empire.”

“What? How do you know, where is he –”

“We’ll talk later,” says Fjord, and glances meaningfully back at Beau and Jester and Bluud.

With a guilty start, Yasha says, “Oh,” and hurries forward to collect Shelby, who has started to wander off in search of fodder. “I will take these,” she says, taking Crapper’s reins from Beau. “Could you bring the carriage around to the back, please?”

As Bluud and Yasha navigate the carriage and four horses back to the stable, Fjord steps up to the broad inn doors with Jester and Beau. “She survived too!” says Jester delightedly, grabbing his arm. “And Nott, that’s the goblin you told me about, right?”

“Yep.”

Jester beams up at him. “Maybe if they made it, others did too.”

Maybe. Hearing of Caleb’s survival was a miracle on its own; reuniting with Yasha and Nott, let alone any of the rest of his crew, is more than Fjord could have ever dared ask for. “We’ll see,” he says.

The inn – the Swallows’ Nest, as the painted sign hanging over the door proclaims – is well-lit and homey inside, several different traveling parties seated at the various wood tables, talking easily over bowls of fish curry, steamed vegetables, and rice. The inn’s owner, a sturdily proportioned half-elf woman, greets Jester by name, and soon they are furnished with rooms for the night, a table, and a heaping platter of food. Fjord eats quickly and thoroughly, drains his mug of ale, and gets up from the table while Jester and Beau banter back and forth about various pranks, Jester’s bubbly chatter meeting Beau’s laconic drawl. Both stop and look up as Fjord steps away from his bench. “Where’re you going?” says Beau.

“Take a piss,” says Fjord. “Might check on the horses, make sure they got enough hay.”

Waving her hand, Jester says, “Oh, they always do, they take very good care of them here –”

“This is true,” says Bluud. The bowl in front of him only contains rice and vegetables, but is bigger than Jester and Fjord and Beau’s portions combined. “This is a good place.”

Fjord shrugs, making his way out of the common room and into the blue-black night. The air is chill with winter, the dark peaks of the Wuyun Gorge looming against the stars. Skirting around the back of the inn, he reaches the stables, a long, low building, with lanterns hanging from posts every so often. Horses whicker quietly in their stalls, the distinct smell of their hay and refuse reaching Fjord’s nostrils. “Yasha?” he says, trying to call out to her without being too loud.

He needn’t have bothered. “Captain Fjord!” shrieks Nott at the top of her lungs, barreling across the courtyard towards him, and launches herself at him. Fjord grunts and staggers as five stone of goblin impacts his knees, nearly knocking him down. “You’re _alive_ , I thought for sure you were dead –”

“Yeah, well, don’t make a big fuss about it, I ain’t tryin’ to cause a scene,” mutters Fjord, as Yasha approaches slowly from out of the shadows. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Yasha nods back towards the stable. “Over here.”

Disengaging Nott, Fjord follows after Yasha. She leads him into the stable and up a dark, rickety set of stairs to the loft, where a yellow oil lantern flickers above several cots and plain, locked chests. “So,” says Yasha. “This is where we sleep.” Below them, a horse whickers and stamps.

Fjord assesses the spiderwebs in the rafters and the smell of dust mingling with the warm scent of livestock. “Cozy.”

“It sucks,” says Nott, throwing herself down on one of the cots. “I have to stay up here all the time when there’s guests around because the inn owners don’t want me scaring away customers.”

A thread of restless power itches under Fjord’s skin, and he paces in a circle. “So what happened?” he demands, spinning around to face Yasha and Nott. “How’d you survive?”

Seated on her cot, Yasha sighs, legs stretched out in front of her. “I don’t know,” she says. In the gaps between her sleeves and bracers and other leather wraps, the burn scar continues down her arm, all the way to her hand. “I remember the heat, and the noise. And then… blackness. I woke up on the beach, under a sky full of thunder and clouds and lightning. But no rain. And when I woke up again the sky was clear and the sand was dry.” She picks at her dirty fingernails, her pale fingers emerging from ragged black fingerless gloves that remind Fjord painfully of Caleb. “So I made my way here.” When she glances up at Fjord, the clarity of her gaze dares him to challenge her story.

Abruptly, Fjord rubs a hand through his hair and sits on one of the chests, the point of the triangle between Nott and Yasha. “That ain’t a natural occurrence,” he says.

“No.” Yasha’s thumb rubs slowly over a medallion at her belt, where Fjord can just make out four lightning bolts carved into the dull metal. “No, it was not.”

Fjord’s never been one to believe in gods, but here in the dark little attic and the calm surety of Yasha’s voice, his stomach trembles with an echo of awe. “Well, I think the same might have happened to me,” he says. “Except I don’t think I’m beholden to the same kind of god.” And he summons the falchion.

Nott jumps and shrieks a little, wide ears pinning back. “Where did _that_ come from?” says Yasha, impressed.

“I don’t know,” says Fjord, honest. “I woke up on the beach next to it, coughing my lungs out. Now I can summon it whenever I want, and I have powers. Powers I never dreamed of ever having.” He can’t keep the ripple of excitement out of his voice. “I know this Uk’atoa wants somethin’ from me, eventually, but for now I think I’m just supposed to grow stronger.”

Leaning forward, Nott sniffs at the dripping blade, slitted nostrils flaring. “So that’s the orb that’s such a big deal,” she says, looking at the yellow crystal in the pommel. “And it’s in the sword now?”

“Yep.”

An anticipatory gleam lights her eyes. “What else can you do?”

Tempting as it is to fire an eldritch blast through the side of the barn, Fjord doesn’t think his hosts would appreciate it. “Stick around with me long enough and you’ll find out.” Sending the falchion away, he says, “And what about you, how’d you make it?”

Nott waggles her right hand at him, where a silver ring gleams on her middle finger. “Ring of Water Walking, remember? I _knew_ I’d be needing it –”

“Wait, what?” demands Fjord, half-rising. “You knew the ship would blow –”

“No, _no_ ,” retorts Nott, shrill. “But the ocean is dangerous! You never know what will happen. You have to be _prepared_.” She narrows her eyes at him.

Not entirely convinced, Fjord says, “So what, you just walked all the way back to the Menagerie Coast, then?”

Shrugging, Nott says, “Pretty much.”

“And you two just… both ended up here?”

Yasha nods.

“Huh.” Tapping his fingers on his thigh, Fjord looks from her to Yasha. “Sounds like we all had pretty fortuitous escapes, then.”

“Indeed.” Nott glances around the room shrewdly. “ _Miraculous,_ even.”

“So, no what?” says Yasha. “You said you’re looking for Caleb?”

Fjord lets out a heavy, slow breath, anticipation twisting inside him. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’ve been lookin’ for him ever since I washed up. First time I’ve actually gotten a lead, though. Got word from a sea spirit that Caleb was spotted a few months back, in the Empire headed north.” He nods back at the inn. “The woman I’m travelin’ with, the tiefling, her dad’s a crime boss up in Zadash. She thinks he might be able to find out more.”

Yasha glances over at Nott. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow mornin’, why?”

Sitting up, Yasha slides her hands back up her thighs. “I’m going with you.”

“Me too,” says Nott.

Fjord looks from one woman to the other, certain he’s missing something. “What? Why?” To Nott, he says, “You just told me, you hate the ocean, you’re scared of it –” Nott’s ears droop, her fangs poking out over her lower lip in an uncertain overbite. “And you – I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to have you, but why stick with me? I’m…” The words stick in his throat as he stares at Yasha, _I’m nothing, I have nothing, no ship, no crew, no one._

“Listen, I didn’t say anything about going back on the ship. I mean, if you even had a ship, which you _don’t_.” Nott’s raspy goblin voice is as harsh as her words, and she draws her knees up to crouch on the cot. “But Caleb said he would teach me magic, and I only learned a couple of little things. He owes me.” Her golden eyes gleam in the lamplight from under her hood.

If her words sting, Fjord won’t show it. “All right.”

“I am with you,” says Yasha quietly. “You are still my captain. Captain.”

A strange lump rises to Fjord’s throat. “I’m not a captain without my ship,” he rasps. “You don’t owe me your loyalty.”

Yasha looks down at her hands, a rueful smile flitting across her face. “Better to owe it to you than somebody else,” she says. “And better to somebody than nobody.”

Memory hits Fjord like a brick to the gut, Caleb standing before him with coins in his palm and wariness in his eyes as Fjord tells him, _Not everythin’ in life is a transaction._ “Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat savagely. “Yeah. Okay. Just so you know, though, I ain’t goin’ back to the sea for a while yet. Not until I find Caleb.”

“I know.” Yasha hesitates, then adds, “I am hoping that if you find him, I can find Molly as well. If, you know. He’s still alive.”

Right. They had been friends before, hadn’t they. Resting his elbows on his knees, Fjord promises, “I’ll see what I can do.”

\--

Fjord tosses and turns on his bed in the Swallow’s Nest, Bluud snoring soundly across the room from him. Despite the exhaustion of a long day in the saddle, Fjord chases a sleep that keeps slipping out of his grasp, his eyes heavy but mind racing. _Sleep_ , he wills himself. _Got to sleep._ _You need your rest for tomorrow._

But they survived. Two more of his crew survived, Nott and Yasha, through fortuitous sorcery or divine intervention. I need to ask if they saw anything, Fjord thinks. If they know what caused the explosion. If four have survived, how many others? Divastiss? Maken? Blue? Molly? Sabian?

I hope not, thinks Fjord grimly. Be a real fuckin’ shame if Sabian survived and others didn’t. _Again._

Rolling onto his back, he covers his eyes with his arm, the floor vibrating slightly with each thunderous rumble that emits from Bluud. Fjord sighs.

Admitting defeat, he throws off the blanket and sits up, wooden planks polished under his bare feet. A sliver of moonlight cuts through the shutters, making a long, pale blade on the floor. Fjord pulls on his boots and shirt and rises, buckling his belt around his waist.

He tries his best not to make too much noise, but the stairs inevitably creak as he descends to the main room of the inn, the spacious dining hall lit only by the smoldering embers filling the broad hearth. A heavy beam keeps the front doors shut, so Fjord skirts around through the kitchen, taking care not to waken the two scullery maids curled up and asleep next to the roasting pit that still radiates warmth. The back door opens silently and Fjord slips out into the night.

The stars spill out across the sky above him like a river of diamonds and diamond dust, most white, some tinted blue, others tinted yellow. Catha, the great moon, hangs low in the sky as a silver crescent, and the lesser moon is just visible above her. Fjord considers the yellow stars, thinking about eyes.

Crossing the courtyard, he enters the stable. From the double row of stalls, he locates Shelby, standing placidly in his box, pale coat dimly visible in the darkness of the stable. Fjord folds his arms on the half-door of the stall and stays there for a little while, listening to the quiet sounds of horses breathing and shifting in their hay. It’s not like the sea, not at all like the smell of salt and the roar of the waves and the creaking of canvas and timbers, but it’s nice. Peaceful.

Now sleep nibbles at the edges of his consciousness, and Fjord yawns. He could go back to his and Bluud’s room and try to sleep, but Fjord doubts that’ll work. There was an extra cot up with Yasha and Nott. Maybe they’ll let him crash in their attic.

The stairs here are much creakier. Fjord is halfway up to the loft when Nott rolls out of bed to face him, knife in hand, wide pupils reflecting dim light. “Who’s there?” she hisses. “Show yourself! I’ll cut your throat, I’ll stab you, I’ll –”

“Nott, Nott!” whispers Fjord. “It’s me!”

She freezes, a black shape at the top of the steps. “Fjord?”

“Yeah, put that away before you put someone’s eye out.” Fjord climbs up the rest of the way, ducking his head so he doesn’t hit it on the low beams. “Can I crash here tonight?”

Skeptical, Nott says, “Why?” A dark, unmoving shape on one of the other cots must be Yasha.

“Roommate snores like you wouldn’t believe.”

He can just make out Nott jerking her thumb at Yasha. “So does she,” whispers Nott loudly.

“Yeah, I know. Trust me, it don’t compare.” Sighing, Fjord lies down on the empty cot, shifting until he gets comfortable. Sleep tugs at him like waves on the shore, urging him deeper. He closes his eyes.

Blinding yellow light floods him.

Fjord gulps water and swims upwards, through the golden rays that plunge down around him, up towards the source of that light. Every muscle in his body cries out with effort as he pulls himself through the water, reaching, reaching, reaching, for the dark humanoid shape above him. He has to get to that person, _has_ to reach him. He doesn’t want to accept what will happen if he can’t.

As Fjord swims upwards, the body becomes clearer, male, skinny, hair floating in a cloud around his head. “Please,” begs Fjord, so close now, a few more strokes and he can touch him. “Please, please, please –”

He jerks awake, covered in sweat, and gasps and flails. His hand strikes something meaty and solid. “Hey,” says Yasha, a firm hand on his shoulder. “You were shouting in your sleep.”

Nott peers at him from over the edge of the cot, bulbous eyes gleaming. “You were saying _Caleb_.”

Chest heaving, Fjord swallows hard, propped up on one elbow. “Right,” he manages, hoarse. His heart hammers like he’s been running a league. “Sorry.”

Yasha pats him on the shoulder and withdraws. “It’s all right.”

Sighing, Fjord lies back down and realizes Nott is still watching him. “What?”

Her eyes remain on him as she slinks back down out of his line of sight before returning to her cot. Uncanny, Fjord grumbles to himself. Downright unnerving.

But he manages to fall back asleep, and this time, he does not dream.

\--

Neither Bluud nor Beau seem particularly enthusiastic about the new additions to the traveling party. “They’re coming with us?” says Beau flatly. “Why?” They are one of several parties readying to leave in the courtyard of the inn, among horses being harnessed and luggage loaded onto coaches.

“Because they’re my crew, that’s why,” retorts Fjord. “They’re helpin’ me find Caleb.”

Crouching down to be on eye level with Nott, Jester chirps, “Oh, hi! You’re so cute!”

Ears flattening back against her hood, Nott bares her mouth of snaggleteeth and hisses. Jester flinches back slightly.

“Yeah, she’s like that, don’t worry about her,” says Fjord, swinging into Shelby’s saddle.

From his driver’s seat of the carriage, Bluud rumbles unhappily. “The more people who come with us, the less inconspicuous we will be,” he says. “There are highwaymen in these parts, especially when we cross into the Empire.”

Yasha flexes subtly. “They don’t scare me.”

Appraising her, Bluud snorts. “And how will you and the goblin keep pace? Do you have horses?”

Jester _tsks._ “They can ride in the carriage, Bluud, honestly. Stop being such a grouch about this.” She opens the carriage door and climbs in, leaving it open, and pats the seat beside her for Nott.

“What about me?” mutters Beau. “Can I still be a grouch?” Crapper tries to take a bite out of her arm and she swats him on the nose.

“I don’t think you could stop if you tried,” says Fjord under his breath, and urges Shelby up alongside the carriage. “Come on, let’s get this show on the road, time’s a-wastin’.”

Nott climbs in warily, the bag of her meager possessions slung over her shoulder, but Yasha eyes the carriage with even more suspicion. “I think I’ll walk,” she says. “I don’t like, uh, confined spaces.” She gestures with her hands, indicating a box.

“You sure?” Fjord eyes her skeptically. “It’s a long walk to the empire.”

Shrugging, Yasha says, “I’ve walked farther.”

“You gonna slow us down?”

Even the shadow of Yasha’s glare is a powerful thing. “No.”

“All right.” Fjord nods to Bluud, who shrugs and clucks to the horses, shaking the reins. “Then let’s go.”

\--

Later that day, as they continue along the road, Fjord falls back to ride alongside Yasha. True to her word, she has been keeping pace easily with the carriage, as long as the horses stay at a walk. “Hey,” says Fjord. “So you really didn’t see anything the night the ship –” he still can’t quite bring himself to say the _Tide’s Breath_ “– blew up?”

Yasha frowns, contemplating. “I don’t think so,” she says, each stride carrying her forward. “I was asleep. I woke up when it all went _boom_. And then I was just in the water.” She glances up at Fjord, the burn scar ragged across the side of her face. “Did you?”

“No, same as you, I woke up when the ship blew, and then… darkness.” Fjord huffs, his body moving with the plodding of Shelby under him. “Nott!”

She pokes her long-eared head out of the carriage window. “What?”

Not wanting to shout the entire conversation, Fjord kicks Shelby into a trot up alongside the carriage, Jester glancing up at him curiously as he does so. “When the ship blew up, did you see anythin’?” he says. “Anythin’ suspicious? About what might have done it?”

“Do you mean _who_ might have done it?” Nott narrows her eyes, clawed fingers hooked over the edge of the open window.

A cold thrill runs down Fjord’s spine. That the ship had blown at somebody’s hand, rather than by accident, is not a new one, but one he keeps tucked away rather than examine that _somebody_ on his ship deliberately sabotaged him. Because that means that somebody he trusts, somebody he accepted onto his crew, betrayed him.

And if it was Sabian, well.

Then that’s doubly Fjord’s fault, isn’t it? _He_ let him back on the ship.

“I might,” says Fjord evenly, aware of Nott’s gaze fixed on him. “Why? D’you see somethin’?”

She squints, expression turning shifty under her porcelain doll’s mask. “I _heard_ something.”

“Fjord!” Jester gasps dramatically. “Someone _blew up_ your ship.”

Fjord grimaces, hands tightening on the reins. “I’m startin’ to think so,” he says. “What’d you hear?”

“Well…” Nott draws out her words, and Fjord senses she enjoys the drama of retelling. “I woke up because I heard a noise up on deck. Like chains rattling. Right on the side of the ship where the longboats are kept. So I did some investigating –” She glances slyly over her shoulder at Jester. “I’m a very good detective, you know.”

Feet propped on the cushion seat across from her, Jester smiles and says, “How many cases have you solved?”

Nott’s ears droop slightly. “Well, just this one.”

“And have you solved it?” demands Fjord. Shelby, sensing his restlessness, tosses his head up and down. “D’you find anythin’?”

“I snuck up the stairs and took a peek on deck,” says Nott. “And I saw someone. Only from behind, but…”

She pauses, suddenly reluctant. “And?” Fjord says, his heart hammering in his chest. “Who was it?”

“Caleb,” says Nott, very quietly.

Fjord stares at her, Shelby carrying him forward. The carriage wheels creak and rumble. Jester’s blue eyes are as round as marbles, her lips parted. “No,” he says.

“I recognized him, his hair is very distinctive.” Nott hunches slightly, the crouch of a defensive wild animal. “But there was someone else on deck he was talking to, I couldn’t make out who. Just another man. And then the ship exploded.”

Fjord’s numb fingers fumble the leather reins, a faint roaring in his ears. “But you didn’t see _Caleb_ do it,” he says, hearing his own voice strangely distant. “It wasn’t _him._ ”

Hesitating, Nott glances at Jester and shrinks down a little more. “I saw sparks on his fingers,” she whispers.

“Sparks on his fingers, what?” says Beau, who Fjord hadn’t even noticed ride up. “Caleb did?”

He can’t have, thinks Fjord. He wouldn’t have. He couldn’t have. Not after they…

But one of the first things he saw Caleb do was blow up an entire Clovis Conchord man-of-war.

“Maybe it _wasn’t_ Caleb,” argues Jester. “Maybe it was the other person who was blowing up the ship and Caleb was trying to stop them –”

Kicking Shelby in the sides, Fjord spurs him into a trot and then a canter and then a gallop, speeding up the dirt road, his hooves pounding _dadadum-dadadum-dadadum_ on the packed earth as the rest of the party rapidly falls behind. One hand knotted in the reins, Fjord grips tight with his thighs, the wind blowing his hair back and the hills blurring around him. His thoughts match the drumbeat of Shelby’s hooves, _He didn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t._

He _didn’t._

Snorting and blowing, Shelby slows to a trot and then a walk, tossing his head again. Absentmindedly, Fjord pats his coarse mane, staring at nothing. There was another man on deck, Nott heard him too. And there was a lot of gunpowder on board. Nothing says, definitively, that Caleb blew up the _Tide’s Breath_.

Except Nott saw sparks on his fingers.

“Shit,” curses Fjord under his breath. “Fuck. _Fuck._ ”

He wheels Shelby around to see the party slowly making their way up the road towards him. Really, it doesn’t change anything in the moment, he supposes. He still needs to find Caleb, if nothing else to know the truth.

But Caleb didn’t do it. Why would he? He’d chosen to stay with Fjord, had risked his life for him, had allowed Fjord to know him in the most intimate way possible…

Except hadn’t Caleb said something about being a prostitute briefly? Maybe to him it had been nothing special.

Stifling a groan, Fjord slumps forward in the saddle with his face in his hand. “Caleb,” he says, the word slipping broken from his lips. He doesn’t know what to think, how to sift the facts from the terrible spiraling suspicions. He needs to see Caleb, to speak to him, to find the truth in his crystal-blue eyes and trace each worn line on his hands and if he can’t, if he can’t find him, if Caleb has left him or been taken from him, if he’s not there, where does Fjord go, what does he do, what _can_ he do…

Fjord only realizes he’s crying when tears roll onto his cheeks, his stomach muscles shaking with stifled grief. He bares his teeth, forehead pressed into his palm, other hand gripping the saddle horn so tight his knuckles ache. A faint ache like a scar twists in his abdomen.

After a few moments, Fjord forces himself to take a deep breath, and another, and then another. Brushing the saltwater off his face, he squares his shoulders, staring up at the cloud-covered sky and willing himself back under control.

By the time the rest of the group has reached him, Fjord is dry-eyed, and he nods in response to the worried looks of the others. “Fjord?” says Jester, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

He manages a tight smile. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’m fine.”

Jester does not look like she believes him, her lower lip pushing out in a skeptical pout. “Fjord.”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” he says, pulling on Shelby’s reins harder than he probably should. Shelby snorts and yanks his head back, tugging on Fjord’s arms. “Let’s go.” And he starts riding again before any of them can say anything.

\--

They reach the Wuyun Gate under an iron-gray sky, the dark mountains reaching up towards the clouds in needle-sharp spires. The gates themselves form an impassable barrier across the gap in the gorge, the wood weathered as gray as the metal binding the beams. Silver-and-crimson armored guards stand by, stopping each cart and wagon as they file through. Fjord eyes them warily, having never crossed into the Empire before. “We all good to go through?” he mutters, walking alongside the carriage with Shelby’s reins in his hand.

Jester settles herself comfortably inside the carriage. “Don’t worry about it,” she says airily.

Fjord glances up at Bluud, who does not seem terribly worried either. “All right.”

Behind him, Beau walks along with Crapper, Yasha on the other side of the carriage, Nott skulking inside opposite Jester. “Should I hide?” she says.

Wrinkling her nose, Jester says, “I don’t know, I’ve never brought a goblin into the Empire before. They’ll probably think we’re up to something suspicious if they find you hiding.” Nott withdraws back into her hood, pulling the porcelain mask up over her face. “It’ll be _fine_ ,” says Jester, her fangs gleaming white as she smiles.

The line crawls forward and their group eventually reaches the gates. One of the guard steps forward, frowning under his helmet, mustache limp and scraggly. Golden chevrons on his breastplate denote him as a captain. “Hello,” sings Jester, leaning out of the carriage window, and waves a sealed scroll at him. “Just passing through.”

Looking highly skeptical, the captain takes the scroll and breaks the wax seal, scanning the writing on it. “And all of these are with you?” he says slowly, looking pointedly over Fjord the half-orc, the beefy pale woman with a longsword, the scowling monk with a mule, and the minotaur driving the carriage, missing Nott as she ducks below the edge of the window.

“Mm-hm.” Jester smiles and nods, her elbows propped on the window of the carriage door. Fjord tries for as unthreatening an expression as possible, ignoring the nervous tension gnawing at his gut.

The captain reads over the missive again, his expression unreadable. “All right,” he says, and hands the missive back to Jester. “Proceed.” He waves the party through.

With a creak and rumble of wheels, the carriage starts forward. Walking Shelby along, Fjord nods to the captain. “Sir.”

The captain narrows his eyes as Fjord passes, his answering nod terse and suspicious. Prickles of shame run over Fjord’s skin as he knows exactly what the captain sees: thick green skin, the nubs of tusks poking up over his lip, uncanny yellow eyes. Straightening his shoulders, Fjord jerks his chin up and walks on.

Should have filed his tusks before they entered the Empire, he thinks. Stupid. Next chance he gets, he will.

As the black mountains loom overhead, the air bites cold, and Fjord trudges over mud and chips of shale as he keeps pace with the carriage. Yasha paces stoically forward, Beau yanking Crapper forward when the mule balks. Other traveling parties plod forward with them, all under the watchful eye of the Righteous Brand as they pass through the massive, iron-bound gates.

Fjord enters the Empire.


	5. Act I, Scene 4

“Fjord,” whispers Jester. “Are you awake?”

He is, lying in his bedroll and staring up at the night sky while the campfire smolders and crackles fitfully beside them. He looks across the embers to Jester, propped up on her elbows in her own bedroll. Beau, Nott, and Bluud slumber on the ground, Yasha keeping watch from the roof of the carriage. “Yeah.”

Blanket wrapped tightly around her, Jester pads over and sits down beside Fjord. “I want to talk to you about Caleb,” she says quietly.

Fjord sighs up at the stars. He’d had a feeling this was coming. “What about him?” he says flatly.

“You don’t really believe what Nott said, do you?” Sympathy laces Jester’s voice, and the glowing embers catch little strands of her hair with orange light. “There’s no actual proof that it was Caleb who blew up the ship.”

A weight sits heavy on Fjord’s chest. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t want to believe it.”

“Then don’t.”

If only it were that easy. “And what if it turns out to be true?” he says, pushing himself up on one arm. From her perch, Yasha glances towards them. “What then?”

“Well…” Jester settles herself cross-legged, adjusting the blanket around her shoulders. “I don’t know, maybe there will be a good reason for it. Lots of things can happen for different reasons. You don’t know what it could be.” Leaning in, she says gently and earnestly, “From what you said, it sounded like he loved you a lot. I don’t think he would just turn on you like that.”

Fjord swallows hard against the sudden lump of emotion in his throat. “You think so?”

Jester’s smile is a soft and wistful thing, her head tilted slightly. “I believe in love,” she says.

“You should not leave someone behind if you don’t have to,” offers Yasha suddenly. “You may not be able to find your way back.”

Her words carry a weight beyond the current moment, her eyes glittering faintly as she sits on top of the carriage, arms resting on her drawn-up knees. Leaning back on his arm, Fjord nods once up at her. “Advice noted,” he says quietly. She nods back and returns to her watch, gazing out over the midnight landscape.

Leaning forward, Jester pats Fjord on the arm. “If you want, I can ask the Traveler about Caleb,” she says. “He might know what happened.”

Fjord narrows his eyes. “The Traveler always answer when you ask?”

“Sometimes,” says Jester airily, shrugging. “But I can always try.”

Somehow it had never occurred to Fjord to ask his own patron for help. “All right,” he says. “Sure. Why not.”

Adjusting her seat, Jester clasps her hands together over her heart, looking up at the stars. “Hey, Traveler,” she says. “I was just wondering, do you know who blew up Fjord’s ship? Was Caleb involved?” She frowns and pauses, then adds, “Do you maybe know where Caleb is?”

Unsure of how the Traveler communicates, Fjord looks around for some sort of sign, in the embers or the stars or somewhere in the dark countryside surrounding them. But nothing changes other than a faint breeze. “You sure he’s listenin’?” says Fjord.

“He’s _always_ listening,” says Jester with unnerving certainty. “He just might not want to answer yet.”

Fjord snorts.

“I will draw about it in my journal some more, just to make sure he knows.” Jester rises to her feet decisively, brushing her knees off. “Don’t worry, Fjord. I’m sure it will be all right.”

“Thanks, Jester,” he says, and wishes he believed her.

Maybe he could ask Uk’atoa about Caleb, he thinks a few minutes later, trying again to fall asleep. Uk’atoa sure makes a big deal of _watching_. Maybe he saw what happened.

Fjord’s never initiated contact with the entity before. Closing his eyes, he tries to will himself into sleep and darkness, picturing the great yellow eye looking down on him. _Are you there?_ he says in his mind, feeling foolish. _I could use your gaze_.

No answering voice reverberates in his head. Fjord exhales slowly, trying to think about nothing but blackness, about falling into the void. _I answered when you called,_ he thinks. _Where are you?_

Is it the wind rustling through the grass on the edges of his hearing, or whispers? Fjord strains to listen, to find words in the vague susurrations –

An hand comes down on his shoulder and Fjord nearly jumps out of his skin. “It’s your turn to watch,” says Yasha.

Fjord blinks his eyes open and clears his throat, Yasha leaning over him. “Right,” he says. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

\--

The farther north they travel, the colder it gets. “Oh,” says Yasha quietly, as they approach the gates of Trostenwald, a town built of sturdy timber structures. “This is where Avantika found Molly and I.”

Fjord glances at her sharply from Shelby’s back, remembering Molly and Yasha had both been in jail. “That gonna be a problem, coming back?”

“I don’t think so,” says Yasha slowly. “I don’t know if they remember us.”

It would be hard not to, Fjord thinks, recalling Molly’s flamboyant coat. “Well, you need someone hexed, you let me know.” As they follow the carriage along the road, he says, “Isn’t this a little far inland for Avantika, though? We’re gettin’ deeper into the Empire.”

Yasha’s brow wrinkles in thought, the wind teasing the tattered fur mantle around her shoulders. “She had been looking for something,” she says. “She was on her way back to the coast from making a deal.”

“Lookin’ for something.” Glancing down at Yasha, Fjord summons the falchion, cold drops of seawater hitting his leg. “You mean one of these.”

Yasha looks up at the yellow eye in the pommel and nods. “Yeah.”

They spend the night in Trostenwald, where Jester insists on buying winter clothing for those who need it. Beau, who has a heavy traveling cloak with her, declines, but Yasha and Nott both accept heavier garments. Fjord eyes the blue, fur-lined coat Jester holds up for him skeptically, unsure of the fine fabric. “Don’t look very practical,” he says.

Jester rolls her eyes. “Fur will keep you warm, Fjord.”

“Yeah, I was just hopin’ for something with a little more protective value, y’know?” He glances around the clothing shop, aware of the proprietor hovering a little ways away with Jester’s other selections draped over her arms. “Is there an armorer nearby we could stop at?”

There is. Fjord swaps his battered jerkin for a brown leather breastplate, pauldrons, and greaves, exchanging his lighter Nicodranian vestments for long pants and a shirt in charcoal-black wool. As he counts out silver, a pair of gleaming vambraces catches his eye, pewter gray and with a linear pattern etched along the sides. “How much for those?”

The armorer, a tall, buff, tan-haired woman, eyes them thoughtfully. “Thirty-five gold.”

Fjord sucks in his breath between his teeth. “I got it,” says Jester, pushing past him to plop a sack of coins down on the counter. “But you _have_ to let me buy you a cloak.”

They compromise on a long black cloak of sturdy wool, which Fjord has to admit makes him feel a little bit like a badass as it swishes around him when he swings up onto Shelby. Something nice about new gear, he thinks, glancing down at his new vambraces. Been a while since he got tricked out nicely. Even at the Chateau, apart from a few company pieces, any gear was on his own dime.

It makes him think of Caleb, as so many things do: of Caleb replacing his worn and filthy brown sheepskin coat with a new long jacket of dark blue-black fabric. How he stood a little straighter in it, how the sharp color contrasted with his red-gold hair, accentuating the pale strip of skin between the high collar and the knife-sharp line of his jaw –

“Yo, Fjord,” says Beau, snapping him out of his reverie as she trots past him. “You coming with us?”

Fjord clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says, and clucks to Shelby, nudging his sides with his heels. “Right there with you.”

He’s even gladder of his new gear a few days later, when the weather takes a turn and becomes absolutely foul, sleet turning the road into frozen, muddy slush. Several times they have to stop and push the carriage to get it out of a rut, Bluud, Yasha, and Jester straining with their shoulders against the back of the cart as Fjord hangs onto the horses’ reins, trying to urge them forward as they sink up to their hocks in mud. “Can’t your Traveler do somethin’ about this?” barks Fjord at Jester.

“I don’t know, maybe Uk’atoa feels like helping,” Jester snaps back, her voice taut with exertion as she heaves against the carriage.

All Fjord knows how to do is blast things and freeze things and hex things and look like someone else. “Well, he don’t!” he shouts, hair plastered to his head, clothing soaked through and frigid.

They muscle their way through eventually, reaching the town of Alfield late at night. “I need a bath,” whines Jester, as they make their way to the town’s only inn. “There’s mud on _all_ my clothes…”

“This place got a bathhouse?” says Fjord, skeptically eyeing the few larger buildings clustered together in the center of town.

Bluud snorts, his fur ropy with caked mud. “No.”

They do get to wash up at the inn, sending their clothes away to be laundered overnight. Fjord fills his empty stomach on crusty bread and thick slabs of fried pork and a hearty but bland bean soup, and then proceeds immediately to bed, collapsing onto the mattress. His eyes close practically of their own accord.

In his dream, he stands on the deck of the _Tide’s Breath._

The night sky vaults black above him, the stars only faintly visible through the smoke that rises from the flames surrounding the ship. Red-gold light glistens like oil on the ocean water, and glowing sparks dance in the air in the same wind that ruffles Caleb’s hair. His eyes glow like live coals as he gazes at Fjord, expression impassive.

“Why did you do it?” says Fjord.

Caleb frowns, looking down and to the side. “I don’t know.”

A slow trickle of blood runs from his nose, down over his lips. Another starts from his ear, painting a red line down to his neck, and a third drop of blood rolls down his cheek like a tear. Caleb does not react, does not wipe them away.

“Cay?” says Fjord, heart pounding in fear. “You’re bleedin’.”

Caleb looks down at his hand, turning his palm up. Blood seeps through the sleeve of his coat, all along his forearm. “I…” he says, and looks up at Fjord, eyes wide and blue and wet. “Fjord, I don’t know what’s happening, help me –”

With a gasp, Fjord wakes up, cold sweat soaking his body. Bluud’s rumbling snore echoes in the inn room.

Fjord wipes off his forehead with a shaking hand, slowly relaxing back into the lumpy mattress. The haunted look on Caleb’s face burns in his mind, and the desperate way he asked for help. Surely, Fjord tries to tell himself, it was just a dream. His own worries bubbling up from his subconscious. It doesn’t mean anything.

But it felt so _real._

For the rest of the night, Fjord tosses and turns until falling into an uneasy slumber just before dawn. Bluud wakes him far too short a time later, prodding him in the shoulder. “Fuck,” groans Fjord into his pillow, his eyelids feeling like sandpaper. “All right. Gimme five minutes.”

He dresses, downs a hasty breakfast of hot tea and porridge, and goes to the stable to tack up Shelby. Faint traces of mud still show on the horse’s pale coat, and Fjord mutters under his breath about lazy stable hands as he gets Shelby’s bridle on and throws the saddle and blanket on his back. As he tightens the flank cinch on Shelby’s saddle, a deep voice he doesn’t recognize says behind him, “See, I told you he’d be here, didn’t I?”

Whirling around, Fjord comes face to face with a male firbolg: tall, gangly, dressed in shabby green, with a mane of pink hair and a placid smile on his face. He barely has time to register this strange apparition before he recognizes the tiefling hurrying up to him. “Molly?”

“I’ll be damned, Deuce, you were right.” Molly draws up alongside the firbolg, looking Fjord over with a strange wariness. He looks much the same as Fjord remembers, though his hair is longer, his outlandish coat significantly more dirtied and worn, and a number of his silver trinkets tarnished or gone. “Captain Fjord?”

Fjord can’t help staring, putting together the many miles between the Menagerie Coast and here. “How the hell did you end up in _Alfield_?”

With a glance up at the firbolg, Molly says, “Well, it’s a long story, and not that I don’t love a good tale, but you’re probably heading out soon, aren’t you?”

“As soon as we can,” says Fjord. Bluud walks into the stable yard towards the carriage horses, looking curiously in Fjord’s direction. “Yasha know you’re here?”

Molly’s scarlet eyes widen. “Yasha’s here?” he says. “ _Where_?”

“I think she’s inside, she was just finishin’ breakfast –”

With a flurry of patterned coat, Molly turns and darts back towards the inn, leaving behind the firbolg who smiles fondly after him before turning back to Fjord. “Caduceus Clay,” he says, holding out a large, gray-furred hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” says Fjord, bemused and trying not to be intimidated by someone who stands a full foot taller than him as he shakes his hand. “Did you – did you come up here with Molly?”

“Oh yeah.” Caduceus smiles. “I’ll let Molly tell you about it, I’m sure he’s dying to. Where are y’all heading?”

“North,” says Fjord, distracted by Yasha walking up with Molly comfortably riding piggyback. “Did you – did you say you knew I’d be here?”

Puzzlement briefly creases the firbolg’s face, his long, rounded ears drooping slightly. “Yeah,” he says, scrutinizing Fjord with almond eyes the color of sunrise. “It’s funny how that happens.”

“Hello.” Yasha strides up beside Fjord, Molly’s arms looped around her shoulders and his legs around her waist. “Are we ready to go?”

Molly grins, baring sharp fangs. “I hear we’re heading towards Zadash, Captain.”

From across the courtyard, Beau yells, “Hey Fjord, you ready yet? We’re loading up the carriage.” When she sees Molly, she cocks her head. “Hey, I know you.”

Eyes narrowed, Molly twitches the tip of his tail back and forth. “What’s _she_ doing here?”

“Going to Zadash with us,” explains Yasha. “We’re looking for Caleb.”

Fjord turns around to finish tacking Shelby up and discovers his horse has ambled off and is tearing mouthfuls of hay from a net hanging in an open stall. Retrieving his wayward steed, Fjord finishes cinching the saddle, checking the girth to make sure it’s secure but not too tight, and joins where Bluud is strapping the trunks onto the back of the carriage, Beau swearing as she tries to lead Crapper out of his stall. Her green cloak much cleaner, eyes bright, Jester walks up, hooves tripping lightly on the flagstones. “Oh, hello!” she says, pausing at the open carriage door to wave at Yasha, Nott slinking up beside her. “Fjord, are these more of your crew?”

“One is,” says Fjord, swinging into the saddle. The sky is crystalline blue, the cold air crisp in his nose. It’ll be a good day to travel, as long as the roads have hardened up again. “Or was.” Fjord can’t imagine Molly will be very interested in tagging along.

Across the courtyard, Yasha sets Molly down and exchanges a few words before striding over to join the traveling party. Molly hurries after her, trinkets jingling, with Caduceus following him at a more leisurely stroll. “Hang on a minute!” Molly calls, panting, as he comes up to the group. “Yasha says you’re going to Zadash?”

Yasha adjusts her pack on her back, broadsword nestled between her shoulder blades. “Yes, we are leaving now,” she says, and glances up at Fjord. “What?”

“You’re – you’re stickin’ with me?” says Fjord. Beau rides up beside him, and he keeps a tight hand on Shelby’s reins as his horse instinctively dances out of range of Crapper’s teeth. “Even after you found Molly?”

“Well… yeah?” Yasha looks confused. “We still need to find Caleb, right?”

We still need to save him, thinks Fjord, remembering his dream, and his stomach churns slightly.

“Oh, is Caleb alive?” says Molly, looking from Yasha up to Fjord. “Excellent. Got any room in that carriage?”

Jester, who has seated herself inside, leans on the door with her arms folded. “Maaaaybe,” she says. “Who’re you?”

Bowing with a flourish, arms outspread, Molly says, “Mollymauk Tealeaf, at your service, requesting permission to join you on your travels.” Jester giggles, and he winks at her. “For both me and my companion.”

“Hi,” says Caduceus, smiling.

“Well, I don’t know,” says Jester coyly, and Fjord exchanges a glance with Bluud, who rolls his eyes. “Can you do anything _special_?”

Molly steps up to the carriage and pulls a pack of cards out of his coat, their edges tattered and the purple backs faded. “Would you like your fortune read?”

Gasping in delight, Jesper clasps her hands together. “Yes!”

“He’s really quite good, you should all get your fortunes told,” remarks Yasha, as Molly grins and shuffles the cards between his hands. Fjord watches his hands curiously, trying to see if there’s any trickery or sleight-of-hand, but if there is, he can’t see it.

With another flourish, Molly presents the fanned-out cards to Jester. “Pick three.”

Eyes bright with excitement, Jester bites her lower lip and points to three cards at random, Nott peering wide-eyed over the door as well. Pulling them out, Molly tucks the rest of the deck back into his coat and holds Jester’s choices face-up. “Your first card, the Silver Dragon. This is good. You’re pure, you’re virtuous, you are a worthwhile and _wonderful_ being, obviously, or creature of some repute.” He winks again.

“That’s what everyone always tells me,” says Jester loftily, tossing her hair.

“It’s true. And heading towards the Anvil.” He presents the second card.

“What is that?”

“That is a destiny forged.” As Molly says this, Caduceus draws up closer, a new intensity to the gaze he turns on Molly like he’s trying to understand something. “There is something bright and adventurous in your future.”

“Fjord!” says Jester, leaning out of the window towards him. “Maybe that means we’ll find Caleb!”

Thinking about his dream again, Fjord manages a tight smile, Shelby stomping a front leg underneath him. “Maybe.”

Slowly, Molly turns over the third card. “The King of Wands,” he says. “Of course.”

“Oh my gosh!” gasps Jester. “Look at that! How did you even do that?”

Shrugging, Molly says, “That’s all the cards. I’m simply a vessel for higher powers.” Beau huffs in contempt.

Leaning forward, Jester whispers conspiratorially, but still loud enough that Fjord can hear, “Will you ask the cards if we’re going to find him?”

Raising his eyebrows and reshuffling, Molly says, “Caleb?”

“Uh-huh.”

Molly goes to pull out another card, but his fingers slip, and the entire deck goes fluttering out of his hands to the floor. “Oh no!” says Jester, as Molly curses and drops to his knees to start retrieving them. “Is that a bad omen?”

“No,” says Caduceus, kneeling and picking a card up. “But I think this might be.” And even on horseback, Fjord can see that instead of bearing a painted design, the card Caduceus holds is burnt black. And as Molly picks up card after card, they are too. All of them.

Molly stares up at Fjord, soot smudged on his fingers, red eyes wide with an entirely unfeigned fear. “That’s not supposed to happen.”

Ice forms in the pit of Fjord’s stomach, his hands tightening on the reins. “We need to go,” he says, pressing his heels to Shelby’s sides. “Nice to meet you, Caduceus.”

Still staring down at the card in his hand, the firbolg blinks himself out of a reverie. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah. I’m coming with you.”

Frowning, Fjord says, “Why?”

Caduceus turns the card over in his hands, and when he reveals the face again, the soot is gone, the original drawing restored. “Destiny.”

\--

Bluud grumbles all the way out of Alfield about the size of their party and how their motley appearance is a beacon for robbers and highwaymen. With pink-haired Caduceus sitting beside Bluud on the driver’s bench, Jester and Molly chattering and laughing inside the carriage while Nott interjects shrilly, Yasha walking beside them with her sword strapped to her back, and Fjord and Beau riding in the front and rear, they make a pretty conspicuous little procession. Riding point, Fjord keeps a sharp eye not just on the road ahead, but on the landscape to either side of them. The one advantage of traveling in winter is not many bandits will be roaming the countryside looking for prey.

But they spend the entire day without seeing another soul on the road, and as they camp that night, Fjord’s watch passes entirely uneventfully as well. Cape wrapped snugly around himself, he crosses to where Molly lies asleep, bundled in his coat and curled up alongside Caduceus’ lanky frame. Fjord kneels, and careful not to disturb Caduceus, shakes Molly’s shoulder. “It’s your watch.”

Molly stirs and yawns expansively, his tongue forked into two points at the tip. “All right,” he mumbles. “Anything happen?”

“Nope.” Fjord finds his bedroll and drags it closer to the fire, laying down and pulling the blanket up to his neck. He falls asleep to the crackling of the flames, Molly and his curving horns silhouetted in profile against the orange light…

He awakes to the sound of talking. “… wouldn’t do that if I were you,” says an unfamiliar voice.

Fjord jolts to awareness, unmoving except for his eyes flying open. People surround their sleeping group, humanoid, maybe seven or eight of them, dressed in rough browns and greens with cloth covering their faces. Molly stands near the fire, facing one of them, his hands held up palm-outward. Holding his breath, Fjord meets Jester’s wide-eyed gaze, and she holds a finger to her lips.

Four of the bandits have crossbows, and the others have drawn swords. “All right, no big moves,” says the one facing Molly, presumably the leader. “No trouble wanted. Get your friends up. Place your valuables onto that carriage for us, you have hitched over there. And we’ll leave you with your life. No worries –”

“All right, all right, easy there,” says Fjord, sitting up slowly. The crossbows shift to him. “We ain’t aimin’ to cause any trouble either.”

With a heavy rumbling, the massive bulk of Bluud shifts and sits up, firelight gleaming on his eyes and curved horns, and nearly all bandits yelp and turn with their weapons pointed towards him. Beau and Yasha are rousing as well, glancing around them warily. Out of the corner of his eye, Fjord catches sight of a shadow darting under the carriage – Nott.

“Now, I don’t think you want to get too close to us,” says Molly. Faint whispers double his consonants for a moment. “You see, we’re all terribly infected. Syphilis. The really bad kind.” He leers.

What little of the bandit’s face is visible looks perturbed. “Right, good to know. Then I suppose we’re going to be leaving you unspoiled.”

Caduceus rolls over and grunts, blinking in sleepy confusion. “Huh?”

“Oh yes, we are so infected, it’s awful,” says Jester pleadingly, sitting up as well. “We just want to go to Zadash and see a doctor –”

Bluud rumbles threateningly, breath steam-clouding in the cold air.

Eyes darting towards him, the bandit stammers, “Then I suggest you all just get down on your knees and stay where you are. We’re just going to take your carriage and what’s inside of it.” Keeping their weapons drawn, the other bandits start moving towards the carriage, opening the doors and yanking at the luggage.

“I wouldn’t touch that, that might – ooh.” Molly winces, looking back over his shoulder at them. “That’s where we got the syphilis from.”

The bandits freeze. One hastily jerks his hands away.

“All right,” says Fjord, getting to his feet, and the falchion appears in his hand with a splash of seawater. The cold night air crackles around him, frost gathering on his leather armor, and a thrill of adrenaline shoots up Fjord’s spine. He hasn’t been able to do _this_ before. “Gentlemen, fun as this conversation is, I think it’s time we go our separate ways,” and he shoots his hand out and a blast of weird green light hits the leader square in his chest.

The leader groans like he got axe-kicked in the balls and drops to the ground. Crossbows discharge with loud twangs and Fjord grunts as white-hot pain slams into his back at the same time that Beau lunges forward, her hand grabbing another bolt inches from Fjord’s face. But the ice gathered on him bursts out, shards embedding themselves in the nearest bandit, who yelps.

With a roar Bluud surges to his feet, one swing knocking two bandits to the ground, and Nott slices the hamstrings of another robber and Jester leaps up with a yell, eyes flaring with a pink light as a massive, glowing lollipop appears in the air. “Now, come on now,” says Caduceus, as the ground around him writhes and hums with hundreds of beetles and worms coming to the surface. “Let’s all just think about this for a moment –”

Yasha spins her longsword in one hand and roars a battle cry.

The remaining bandits do not stop and think about it. They run.

“And fuckin’ stay out, you hear?” Fjord roars after them. The leader lies dead on the ground, the two Bluud hit either dead as well or knocked out cold. Nott’s victim, on the other hand, writhes in the dusting of snow, clutching at his bleeding ankles, and whines piteously. “Somebody shut him up?” growls Fjord, disappearing the falchion as the ice around him melts and disappears.

“You mean, like keep him quiet, or – oh,” says Caduceus, right as Jester’s lollipop slams down on the bandit’s head. His body spasms and goes still.

“Ah,” says Molly, looking down at his chest, where two crossbow bolts stick out. “Huh.” And he goes limp and collapses.

“Molly!” says Caduceus, and scrambles over to him, turning him over onto his back. A warm light flares around his hands as he yanks out one bolt, leaving a bloody hole behind.

Molly’s eyes fly open and he gasps, back arching. “Aah,” he groans, hands clawing in the frozen ground. “Get it out, get it out –”

“Fjord,” whispers Jester, stepping up beside him, and Fjord jumps. “You have an arrow in you too.”

So he does, he can feel it digging into his shoulder, the pain radiating as he moves. “Yup,” Fjord manages, strained. “You mind – you mind takin’ care of that?”

“Easy, easy there,” mutters Caduceus as he leans over Molly. “Hold still, I got it.” And he pulls out the other bolt, his hand pressing down on Molly’s chest to stop the trickle of blood. Yasha sheathes her sword and hurries over to kneel beside him as well.

Beau comes around to peer at Fjord’s injury. “Ooh, yeah, that’s really in you –”

With a searing pain, Jester yanks the bolt out of Fjord’s shoulder and he grunts, bracing his hands on his knees. “Warn a guy first, Changebringer!”

“Sorry,” says Jester, contrite, and places her hand on his back. A soothing coolness flows out from her touch, washing over Fjord’s skin, and the pain recedes, the trickle of blood slowing.

Sighing in relief, Fjord stands up straight. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Jester pats him on the shoulder.

Molly groans and rolls over, spitting blood onto the ground. “Well, that was bloody terrible,” he growls, rubbing his chest. “Did my heart stop? I think my fucking heart stopped.”

Yasha’s hand hovers over his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” Grimacing, Molly pushes himself to his feet, both Yasha and Caduceus reaching out to steady him. “As right as I’ll ever be.”

\--

“So, Molly,” says Fjord, pulling on the reins so Shelby falls back alongside Molly and Caduceus as they walk together, his horse’s feet crunching on the frosty grass. “How exactly did you survive and end up out here, anyway?”

Molly sighs, tail swishing as he stares out into the distance. “First thing I remember is Caduceus waking me up on the beach, and coughing up an absolute gallon of seawater,” he says. “I must have just washed up.”

He glances over at Caduceus, who shrugs and says placidly, “You remember it better than I do.”

“Yeah.” Molly snorts. “Deuce here was kind of… well.”

“I wasn’t myself.”

Before Fjord can ask what that means, Molly continues, “We made our way back up the coast, took a while, had some adventures along the way that really aren’t worth the time it would take retelling them. Finally wound up heading north, about the time Deuce started insisting we had to be in Alfield. Deuce’s intuitions usually turn out to be right, so.” He grins knowingly up at Caduceus, who smiles back.

“Intuitions?” says Fjord, frowning down at them from horseback. What was it Caduceus had said, when all the cards were scattered? Destiny? “How d’you mean?”

“I dunno.” Caduceus shrugs, mildly perplexed, his vivid pink hair rippling down alongside his face. “I just have these feelings. It sort of comes to me.”

“Riiiight.” Fjord surveys Yasha striding forward with her broadsword strapped to her back, and the carriage containing Jester and Nott, and Beau leaning back nonchalantly as she rides along, and wonders how he ended up surrounded by such a motley crew of misfits. Caleb should be here, and for a moment his absence hits Fjord like a physical blow, the air leaving his lungs. Cold air stings his face as Fjord exhales slowly, his breath clouding.

Caleb on the deck of the ship, surrounded by flames. Are his eyes orange with remorseless flames, or blue with tears?

Enough. Fjord puts the thought out of his head and his heels to Shelby’s sides, and canters forward along the road to Zadash.


	6. Act I, Scene 5

The Evening Nip doesn’t particularly impress Fjord, being a drab little wooden bar. Then again, nondescript is what you want for the front of your criminal enterprise.

“Hello, Clive,” sings Jester, leading the rest of the group through. Bluud clomps alongside her, raising one furry paw to the ancient dwarf behind the bar. Only two men sit and drink, both watching the group intently, and Fjord eyes them warily back. “Is my dad here?”

The dwarf grumbles an affirmative into his beard, half of which has been burned away. “These all friends of yours?”

“Mm-hm.” Jester smiles at him expectantly.

With an aggrieved sigh, the dwarf walks out from behind the bar and leads the group over to a storage cupboard barely big enough for Bluud, let alone all of them. Fjord can’t quite see what the dwarf does, but he hears metal clink and wood creak, and then the sound of a winch turning. “Go on,” he grumbles.

“Thank you,” chirps Jester, who Fjord can just see past Bluud as she descends. Bluud follows, ducking his huge head, and Fjord finds a staircase has opened in the floor of the cupboard, curving down and around under the floor.

The stairs are stone, even and smooth, with the occasional glowing orb set in the walls to light the way. “So wait, I’m confused,” says Yasha from behind Fjord, as they descend underground. “This Gentleman is your father?”

“Yah.” Jester leads the way, hooves tripping on the stone paving.

“And he lives here, and your mother lives… in Nicodranus?”

“Okayyyy, so.” Voice echoing slightly off the walls as it travels back to Fjord, Jester says, “When the Gentleman first met my mom he was really poor, he didn’t have _anything_ , but he was desperately in love with Mama because she was the most beautiful woman in the entire Menagerie Coast. And at first she was like, ‘Who is this guy working at the stables, why do I even care,’ and would always ask him to do things, and all he ever said was ‘As you wish.’ And then the more time Mama spent around him, the more she liked him, until they fell in love!

“But he was still just a poor stable boy so he decided that if he was going to marry Mama and care for her and me – because I was on the way by this point, you know,” and she winks and elbows Fjord a couple of times, “then he had to go make his fortune. So he sailed off on a merchant ship but then they got captured by _pirates_ who never left _any_ survivors. And the captain was going to kill my dad, except he was very charming and persuaded the captain to leave him alive, just for a night. And every night he said the same thing, until my dad was getting better and better at being a pirate, and then eventually the captain was like, ‘I’m getting old, I want to retire, so you can have the ship instead!’

“But meanwhile Mama thought he was _dead_ , and she was so heartbroken she swore to never fall in love with anyone again. Except there was a very rich man in Nicodranus, one of the marquises, who wanted to marry her. And because she had me and was worried she wouldn’t be able to stay at the Chateau with a little baby, she said yes and was going to marry him.

“And then my dad came back! Except he was a pirate so he had to be in a mask so no one knew who he was, and he stormed right up to the wedding and demanded they stop, and even though he was wearing a mask my mom knew who he was right away because she loved him so much!

“They wanted to run off together but then, you know, my mom is really famous at the Chateau and the Gentleman was getting really good at being a pirate, and she was scared to leave, anyway, and he didn’t want her mixed up in all his pirate business either. But _obviously_ once he saw me he couldn’t just leave me behind either! So he kind of stopped being a pirate and moved his business to Rexxentrum instead and basically I just grew up going back and forth between them.” Jester finishes her runaway story with a smile back over her shoulder at the rest of the group. “I’ve learned a lot from both of them.”

“Wow.” Yasha appears to be processing this. “That is very romantic.”

“It is,” sighs Jester dreamily.

They’ve come now to a set of double wooden doors, plain but well-made, and pass through into a much nicer, more welcoming space than the pub above. Rich brown wood panels the walls, amber light shining from the chandelier above, and music from a violin and lute drift over the heads of a dozen or so patrons drinking and chatting animatedly, several in a rousing game of cards.

Jester makes her way straight across the room, Bluud clumping after her, and as Fjord follows with the others behind him, he doesn’t miss how heads turn their way and muttering rises up behind them. Fjord counts multiple rough-looking characters, including a massive male ogre standing one corner and scraping dried blood off a giant maul. He catches movement in the balconies ringing the room as well, a couple individuals leaning on the railings and keeping a sharp watch on the movement below.

Heedless of the scrutiny, Jester leads the group to the back where a blue-skinned man with long dark hair and a goatee lounges in a red velvet armchair, booted heels on the table in front of him, and a small knife in his hand that he plays with idly as he talks to a black-furred cat woman. “Jester!” he says, turning towards her as a smile lights his face.

“Hello, Daddy,” she says, leaning over the table to kiss him on the cheek.

He turns his cheek towards her for better access. “Hello, sweetheart. How was the journey?”

“ _Cold_.” Jester rolls her eyes in disgust, dragging over a chair next to the Gentleman and plopping down in it.

“Well, that’s what you get for traveling in winter.”

Nott stares at the Gentleman, transfixed. “He’s _dripping_ ,” she whispers.

So he is, Fjord thinks. Sweat beads on the Gentleman’s teal-blue forehead and throat, though it’s not particularly warm in here and he doesn’t look at all distressed.

The cat woman’s gaze is fixed on Molly with the same single-minded intensity as Nott’s, although considerably more awed. “Lucien?” she whispers incredulously. “You’re alive?”

Molly smiles uncertainly. “Oh, sorry, friend, I’ve got one of those faces people tend to recognize.”

“Lucien!” And she rushes forward and pulls Molly into an embrace.

Fjord raises his eyebrows at Molly, who grimaces helplessly over the tabaxi’s shoulder and hugs her back. “It has been too long, two years,” she says, pulling back with her hands on Molly’s shoulders, gold-green eyes glimmering with tears.

“Far too long!” laughs Molly.

The tabaxi laughs wistfully, reaching up to snag a curl of Molly’s dark purple hair on one clawed finger. “Look at you, you have grown out your hair!”

“Ah yes, it’s been quite an interesting two years –”

“And you are covered in tattoos!” 

“Well, it sounds like there’s a lot of catching-up to do,” says the Gentleman amiably, although Fjord doesn’t miss the alert edge to his voice. “Sit down, sit down, everyone. Jester, why don’t you introduce your friends? And Cree, please bring your satchel.”

As Fjord draws out a chair at the mahogany table, Molly leans in close to him. “I’m sorry, this is my nightmare, please just go with it?” he whispers desperately, slightly wild-eyed. “It’s Lucien. And I’m back around. Pass it on.”

So there’s more to this than just a reunion of two friends, it seems. Interesting. Fjord nods, giving Molly a steadying pat on the arm before sitting down opposite the Gentleman. Eyes narrowed, Yasha lowers herself into the chair on the other side of Molly, who immediately leans over to whisper in her ear, Caduceus hovering uncertainly behind them. Beau throws herself into another chair at the table, Nott scurrying up to perch on the arm beside her. The chair at Fjord’s right-hand stays empty.

With Bluud looming behind her, Jester smiles and crosses her legs. “Dad, this is Captain Fjord, he’s the friend I told you about who’s looking for his –” She stops, hesitating for the right word.

“Partner,” says Fjord, managing a smile. “I hear he’s in the Empire somewhere.”

“So Jester tells me.” The Gentleman gestures at the others sitting around Fjord. “And are these your crew?”

Immediately, Beau says, “I’m not. I’m with the Cobalt Soul.”

“She’s not,” agrees Fjord. “Not so sure about him, either,” and he nods at Caduceus. “But the rest of them are.”

The Tabaxi, Cree, returns with a leather satchel that she places on the table, making Jester sigh and roll her eyes again. “ _Daa-ad_ , you are not doing this again, it’s so _embarrassing –_ ”

“You knew this would happen when you brought them into my sanctum,” chides the Gentleman. Cree opens the satchel, bringing out a small wooden rack with a number of empty glass vials. “I need, just – and bear with me, please – just a small bit of your blood. The reasoning being, if I can't trust you, and you can’t trust me, how am I to know you aren’t going to turn me in immediately outside to the King's Hall? And I need some means in case you just abscond with this information: perhaps make an arrangement with me and then leave town. I need to find you.”

Fjord does not need to look around to know the two watchers in the balcony, the ogre in the corner, and the Gentleman’s personal bodyguard of a mohawked female goliath are all watching him. “Oh, of course, and forgive my ignorance. This would be used to locate us? Is that what this is for?”

The Gentleman smiles and shrugs. “Oh, that is Cree’s specialty.”

“It is most definitely Cree’s specialty,” says Molly, his tail swishing nervously around the chair legs.

If a little of his blood takes Fjord one step closer to finding Caleb, then it’s a small price to pay. “Yeah, fuck it,” he says, and pulls out his dagger to nick his finger.

Cree gestures, flicking a finger upward upward, and a thin stream of blood flows from the cut, through the air, and into an empty vial that she then corks. “Thank you so much,” she says.

Considering her, Fjord rubs his thumb over the stinging cut. “How did you do that?”

“It’s a gift that I learned at the same place – well.” Her eyes flicker over to Molly. “We can speak more of this later, I have many questions, as I’m sure you do to.”

A slightly hysterical giggle escapes Molly. “So many,” he says. Caduceus steps up closer behind him, one large hand on Molly’s shoulder.

Cree looks over expectantly at the rest of the group, and Yasha glances uncertainly at Fjord. “Captain?”

For a brief moment, Fjord wonders what it would be like if he said no. If he challenged the Gentleman in his own domain, with his own dubious authority as captain of what passes for a crew. It wouldn’t go well, he suspects. But it’s a tempting idea all the same. “I have your word you won’t harm my crew?” he says.

“Of _course_ he won’t.” Jester glares at her father.

The Gentleman curls his lips in a dry smile. “No harm will come to you, unless you bring harm to me. So this is just a precautionary measure. I appreciate your trust.”

Nodding to Yasha, Fjord says, “Go ahead.”

One by one, his crew offer small cuts on their hands to Cree, Nott using her sharp teeth to puncture her skin. Cree works methodically, corking and storing individual vials on the rack. Curiously, both Yasha and Molly’s blood is brighter than normal, a more vivid red, while Nott’s has a brackish tint. “Can I borrow a fang?” says Beau to Nott, who bares her mouth of jagged, misaligned teeth, for Beau to slice a thumb over.

“Fantastic, I really appreciate that.” The Gentleman leans back in his chair, appraising the group, as Cree carefully packs the vials back in her satchel. “Now, tell me about this missing partner of yours.” A servant in dark blue livery comes up beside Jester, bearing a ceramic mug of hot chocolate on a silver tray, which she takes from him with a nod of thanks.

“He’s a crewmember of mine,” says Fjord, folding his arms over his chest. “His name is Caleb Widogast, although some people might know him as Bren Ermendrud. Medium height, bright copper hair, blue eyes, freckles all over his face. Hooked nose. Got kind of a scruffy beard thing going on.” Fjord does not mention the gold flecks in his eyes like burning sparks, or the tired lines at the corners of his eyes, or the delicate double curve of his upper lip. “Looks like this, actually,” and he disguises himself to look like Caleb. The Gentleman raises an eyebrow and nods appreciatively before Fjord drops the illusion. “Very gifted in the arcane, if you catch my drift.”

The Gentleman regards him thoughtfully, one finger stroking his goatee. “Magically gifted, you say? A sorcerer?”

“Wizard, I think.” Fjord is fuzzy on the distinctions between various breeds of spellcaster. “He used books a lot.”

Tapping his fingers on the table, the Gentleman leans back in his chair. “Hmm,” he says. “I might… I would need to verify, of course, but I may have heard a rumor or two to the effect of a person _potentially_ matching that description up in Rexxentrum.”

Small fireworks burst in Fjord’s head, drowning out all other sounds of music and chatter. “In Rexxentrum?” he hears himself say. “Where in the city? When? What was he doing?”

“Now now now, like I said, it was just a rumor.” The Gentleman holds up a placating hand. “And ordinarily, this information would come at a cost. A favor for a favor, you understand?”

Fjord does.

“It’s just good business –”

“Except,” says Jester sweetly, “we’re not talking business, because Fjord is a friend of mine, and I want to help him out.” She sips her hot chocolate.

The Gentleman glances at her with equal parts fondness and exasperation. “Except, from what my darling daughter has been telling me, you have been a very good friend to her on a number of escapades, and I am happy to repay that friendship with information.” Jester smirks.

“Well, I appreciate that, sir,” says Fjord, who knows when a little deference is due. “How soon could I, uh…”

“Receive that information?” The Gentleman looks over at Jester, who shrugs.

“I can send some messages,” she says.

“We’ll need to confer, and I have other associates here and in Rexxentrum I need to contact, but not more than a few days, I should hope. Or else I’m really not doing my job right.” He laughs, only slightly artificial. “For the meantime, you’re welcome to stay here, we have plenty of rooms.” He nods at Fjord, a clear dismissal.

“Thank you, sir,” says Fjord, standing. Chairs scrape against the wooden floor as the other rise as well. “I appreciate it.” And with a sideways glance at Cree and her satchel of blood, he turns and heads back through the room, weaving through the tables until he finds an empty one.

Jester stays behind, leaning over to whisper something in the ear of her father, who smirks. But Cree gathers her bag up and hurries after the group, coming up alongside them as they reach a round table big enough to seat everyone. Before she can reach them, Fjord leans over to Molly and says, “I don’t mind rollin’ with this name Lucien, but does it bring any trouble with it?”

“I don’t know. We’ll find out.” Molly’s eyes dart from person to person in the room; one of the watchers in the balcony leans over to survey them. He carries a strange device that Fjord assumes is a weapon, a long tube of metal and wood with some kind of hammer and trigger mechanism towards the middle, and a curved grip.

“Fair enough.” Fjord draws out a chair at the table.

“I’ll explain later!” hisses Molly, which Fjord sure hopes he will, but there’s no more time to say anything as Cree reaches them, hesitating as she comes up to the motley group. “Come, sit down!” Molly slips into a mask of charming welcome, stepping forward to hug Cree again. “How have you been? It’s been ages?”

“Oh, too long. I apologize for using your old name.” She scrutinizes him, one hand on his shoulder, and Fjord wonders how different the Molly she sees now is from the one she remembers. “Nonagon, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

 _Nonagon?_ mouths Beau across the table to Fjord, and he shrugs. Odd name, but so is Mollymauk.

“Now, hang on,” says Caduceus, frowning. “You said your name was Molly.”

Molly forces a smile. “I did –”

“But now it’s Lucien? Or Nonagon? Lucien Nonagon?”

“Who can keep track these days?” Molly pulls out a chair for Cree, who sits slowly, still staring at him. “Again, a long story…”

Folding her paws together, Cree leans forward and says, “Nonagon, what happened? We watched you _die._ ”

Hold up.

Fjord glances around at his companions, all looking as stunned as he feels, including Molly, who stares blankly at Cree before blinking and recovering himself. “That is a story for another day and another drink,” he says, and looks at the empty table. “Speaking of! Drinks!” He looks around for a server.

They manage to flag someone down and get several rounds of whiskey. Molly knocks his glass back immediately, while Caduceus sniffs his, deeply suspicious. “So,” gasps Molly on the tail of his drink, “what did you see? Gosh, I don’t know what that looked like from the other end of things.”

It’s good whiskey, amber-tinted and with a slow burn that warms Fjord all the way down. In the firelight, it glints like Caleb’s hair. “Well, it all went belly-up two years ago,” says Cree slowly. “You told us to scatter and vanish if it didn’t – if things went wrong and wait until you returned. We buried your ass in the woods outside of the hideout, I mean –”

Molly grimaces. “It may not have necessarily been my ass that you buried.”

With a disbelieving half-laugh, Cree says, “Apparently.”

“I had a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Having downed a shot of her own, Beau turns the empty glass in her fingers, one eyebrow cocked as she follows the conversation. Cree laughs, “Well, I mean that spell-spitter lady from the capitol. She said you were gone, she took the book and left, and that her contract said she was in the right and that we knew better than to go toe to toe with her and her ilk.”

Fjord watches Molly intently to see if any recognition flickers in his face. The mask doesn’t falter, though. “Obviously. Is everybody else all right? I know it has been a while. I had to stay underground.”

With a wrinkled nose and stuck-out tongue, Caduceus quietly says, “Oh, I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all,” and sets his shot of whiskey back down on the table. At his elbow, Nott peeks over the table and silently reaches out to draw the glass towards her.

Cree sighs, shoulders slumping. “Unfortunately, Jurrel met with the axe of the law shortly after you left us.”

“Damn shame.” Molly shakes his head.

“Zoran, Ottis, and Tyffial have all scattered amongst the empire…”

The head-shaking intensifies. “Damn shame.”

“But, do you want me to find the others?”

Pure panic crosses Molly’s face before he reins it back in. “No, actually, I’m –”

Face alight, Cree reaches out and takes his arm. “I know where Tyffial is!”

“Where is Tyffial? I would rather obviously deliver everything in person.” The way Molly disassembles is admirable, Fjord has to admit, though he can’t help wondering how much of what Molly has told him was a lie as well. Yasha watches Molly as well, her face unreadable, drink untouched in front of her. “Honestly if I had known you were here I would’ve made arrangements. I didn’t want to shock you.”

“She's up in Nogvurot. We can travel there, I can send a message and have her come down to us.” Cree’s ears are pricked forward in eagerness, her eyes bright.

Molly stammers, manages, “I'm working on something very delicate, I need everything to be very quiet.”

Eyes narrowing slightly, Cree draws back, her long tail swishing. “Very well, Nonagon,” she says slowly. Nott sneaks a second glass from under Caduceus’ nose.

As entertaining as it’s been to watch Molly wiggle, Fjord has had enough of being in the dark. “I beg your pardon,” he says, “For those of us who aren’t as familiar with Molly’s – sorry, Lucien’s – many lives, you mind elucidatin’ what it was the two of you did together?”

Cree hesitates, glancing at Molly. “How much do they know?”

“We know pretty much all of it, so.” Yasha folds her arms stonily. “I know all of it, so you can just tell me if you want to.”

Raising one black eyebrow-like marking, Cree shrugs and says, “Well, we were all part of the same order at one point, and we splintered off. Luci– Nonagon had a different path in mind for us, so we went north to Shadycreek Run and we started the Tomb Takers. It’s just so good to see you,” she finishes, smiling again.

Molly smiles back, all bright white sharp teeth. “It’s good to be seen again. But again, it’s got to be very quiet right now. It’s been like three other names since the last time I saw you,” he says conspiratorially.

Starting to rise, Cree says, “I should inform the others –”

Molly’s eyes widen briefly and he grabs her arm. “Please, keep it quiet for now.” Cree stops, startled, and Molly drops his voice to a half-whisper. “That book caused more trouble than you think, and it all laid on my shoulders. I was trying to protect the rest of you from some of the worst elements of that and I don’t want any heat dropping on anybody who doesn’t know what's coming yet.”

“Of course.” Cree regards him searchingly.

“But let me know where they are and I’ll get ahold of them. But don’t let them know why yet,” says Molly. Fjord takes another sip of whiskey to hide his scrutiny, wondering if the request is genuine or just another part of the front.

Nodding, Cree turns to go, and then comes back to lean in towards Molly, a conspiratorial grin curling her lips. “Does this mean it worked?” she whispers.

Molly sighs ruefully. “That’s, again, mixed company and public company.”

“No, you can tell us about the ritual!” pipes up Nott, clambering up to see over the edge of the table. Her pupils are dilated, her large ears quivering slightly. “Ritual?”

Recognition flickers in Cree’s eyes as she draws back slightly. “Yes, it was successful!” continues Nott, grabbing another glass of whiskey and sloshing it around dangerously. “Remind me what it was again? There’s been so many rituals lately!”

Shooting her a significant look, Molly says, “Mixed results.”

“You mentioned this group, the Tomb Takers.” Beau speaks up for the first time, Cree drawing back slightly under her scrutiny. “You had another name before. Were you a group and Lucien joined up with you at some point?” She slides a glass away from Nott and downs another shot, still watching Cree.

“Well, he led us away from the original order. They were… a bit clouded. We had a new path.” Fjord can see the joy of Molly’s return starting to fade from Cree, hesitation replacing it.

“And what was the name of the original group you were a part of?” probes Beau.

Cree stands up straight, her hesitation more apparent. “You don’t have to tell them anything you don’t want to tell them, it’s all right,” mutters Molly, staring into his glass of whiskey.

Unmoved, Yasha says, “Was he your new path?”

“He brought us onto a new path, yes,” says Cree slowly.

“Yeah, but what was your like, unifying path of pursuit?” demands Beau, frustration at the lack of answers evident.

Even more sotto voce, Molly says, “Foolishness in thinking I knew what I was doing.”

Nott hears him anyway. “That is not a good answer!”

“Well, it’s the answer you’re getting,” and Molly flicks her on the nose. She yelps and withdraws.

Meanwhile, Caduceus frowns at Molly as if seeing him for the first time. “You don’t remember, do you?” he says. Molly immediately turns towards him with a look of pure alarm, Cree standing behind him with her tail twitching suspiciously. “You don’t know who Lucien is.”

Molly squeaks.

Well, this is all well and good and kind of fucking boring, Fjord thinks. “Well, pleasure to meet you, Cree,” he says, standing, “but it’s been one hell of a day, and I think it’s time me and my crew turned in for the night.” He glances meaningfully at Molly. “We got a lot that needs discussin’.”

“Of course,” says Cree, in a guarded tone that makes Fjord think she’s not done with Molly either. “Nonagon. I am very glad you are alive.”

A smile that might actually be genuine stretches Molly’s lips. “Me too.”

\--

The rooms at the Evening Nip are nice – not quite as luxurious as the suites at the Lavish Chateau, but still far nicer than Fjord has come to expect. Before he can let himself relax into that velvet-blanketed bed, though, there’s a conversation he has to have.

“Molly?” Fjord raps his knuckles against the door of Molly and Caduceus’ room. “You in there?”

Beau slinks up beside him. “You gonna ask him about his past?”

“Mm-hm.” If there’s movement inside, Fjord can’t hear it. “There’s a couple points I’d like clarification on.”

By now Yasha has joined them as well. “I would also like to know.” Fjord doesn’t think he’s imagining the hint of betrayal in her voice.

A bass voice murmurs, and then the door opens to Molly, his hair rumpled and shirt open, patterned coat hanging off of his lean frame. “What?” he says, irritated.

“Let’s have a talk.” Fjord smiles, trying not to be menacing. He’s not entirely sure it worked.

Molly glances back at Caduceus, who reclines unperturbed on the bed; braces himself against the doorframe and groans, dropping his head; and finally stands and straightens with a sigh. “ _Fine_.” He steps back with an overly-elaborate bow, hands twirling mockingly.

Ignoring this, Fjord strides into the room, Beau following close after, and nearly trips over Nott as she darts in as well. Yasha is the last to enter, with a cold gaze that cowers Molly slightly. “So,” says Fjord, hooking a heel around one of the two chairs in the room and sitting down on it, arms folded. “Spill.”

Annoyance crosses Molly’s face. “Is there a reason everyone’s treating me like I’m some kind of criminal?”

“Maybe because you lied about where you came from –”

Molly rolls his eyes, lip curling. “I can’t have lied because I never actually told you anything, did I, _Captain_?”

That’s actually a fair point. Fjord takes a moment to clamp down any of his feelings of betrayal. “You’re right,” he says. “I apologize.”

This in turn catches Molly by surprise, whose red eyes widen slightly, and his tail swishes. “I mean, it’s still the kind of thing you could have told us about _before_ we got here,” says Beau.

“With complete and utter honesty, I didn’t think it would come up,” growls Molly.

“Who was that woman?” asks Yasha. “And why did she call you Lucien?”

Nott demands, “What was that book you stole?”

“Yeah,” adds Beau, “and who are the Tomb Takers –”

“Hang on, hang on, hang on,” interjects Caduceus from the bed, now sitting cross-legged with his ears swiveling as different people speak. “Let him speak.” He smiles encouragingly at Molly. “Start from the beginning.”

Sighing, Molly drags a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem,” he admits. “For me the beginning is clawing my way six feet out of a grave two years ago, with absolutely zero memory of who I was.”

Fjord takes a moment to process that. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I woke up without any names, or any past, buried in the ground two years ago.” Molly speaks quickly, as if trying to get it over with as fast as possible. “My first memory, my oldest memory, is dirt in my face, underground. It’s a vague memory. I don’t really remember it. It’s kind of all jumbled. It’s what I’ve been told, about some of it. The circus found me. Their leader, Gustav, nursed me back to health. Not long after, Yasha fell in with us. We stayed together. And now we’re here.” He glances apologetically at Yasha.

“Why do you have so many names?” asks Beau. She leans against the wall behind Fjord, arms folded, staff propped up beside her. “Lucien sounds very ‘I’m trying to find myself,’ by the way. Just throwing that out there.”

“I don’t have the foggiest.” Molly’s bemusement seems genuine. “Whoever this Lucien, this Nonagon was, _that’s not me_.” This time he turns to Yasha, pleading. “I have no idea who this Cree is, I don’t know what ritual she was talking about, or that woman, or _anything_ that she said –”

Something in Yasha’s rigid posture softens. “It’s all right,” she says. “You don’t owe any of us anything.”

“No, but it’s dangerous now, isn’t it,” growls Molly, hands on his hips as he glares at the floor. His long tail lashes around his ankles. “It’s officially dangerous.”

Fjord leans forward with his elbows on his knees. “What, to tell us what you’re about to tell us? For us, or for you?”

With a strained smile, Molly says, “What’s the difference?”

“Well, one’s us and one’s you.”

“We definitely left our vials in a shady cellar with a bunch of underground criminals,” points out Beau.

From under Fjord’s chair, Nott rummages inside her clothing and pulls out three empty glass vials. “I stole some,” she pronounces. “I’m very excited about them. They’re empty, but they’re still really shiny.”

Sighing, Molly throws himself onto the bed next to Caduceus, who reaches out to rub his ankle. “I've been part of a shady group,” says Molly, face in his hand. “I’ve been dealing with shady friends for as long as I can remember. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about dealing with people that you can’t trust, is that you have to trust them where you can and not trust them where you can’t. I’m not saying that I know what I’m doing or anything, but I don't want anybody – I want this to work. I need this to work. I’ve not done this in a while. All right.” By the end he looks straight at Fjord, voice painfully earnest.

“So whatever put you in the ground,” says Beau slowly, “is that the ritual she was talking about?”

“I don’t know.”

Despite how clear Molly was on this point, Fjord asks again, “So before you woke up in the dirt, nothing?”

“There is no before.” Molly sits up and leans forward, emphatic. “Whatever happened before is not me. It’s not part of anything –”

Nott creeps forward, eyeing him closely, ears folded back. “Like your life reset somehow? Or you just don’t remember?”

“Some asshole got buried in the dirt. Fuck him,” says Molly, with sudden viciousness. “I am enjoying what I’m doing; I want nothing to do with that. Anything that came before, I was _happy_ to just leave it be.”

“I didn’t realize you didn’t,” says Yasha quietly. “You did a good job of pretending.”

Another pained smile bares Molly’s teeth. “Yeah, well, I like pretending. Pretending’s great. Who cares where anybody came from?”

“But what if,” persists Nott, “you had a good life before this? What if you were famous or rich or had friends or family –”

Molly hisses, tail lashing irritably; it hits Caduceus in the thigh, making him wince. “Okay, here’s the thing that you're not catching,” Molly says, pointing one clawed finger at Nott. “That wasn’t _me_. _This_ is mine. I don’t want anything from that other person anymore. That person is someone else. I don’t want anything to do with it. I did not feel good coming out of that. It was – I’m in for a penny, might as well. I’m told, although I don’t entirely remember this part, that I only said the world ‘empty’ over and over again for the first week.” He glowers around at everyone in the room.

Empty. Something in his words catches Fjord hollowly, reminds him of Caleb’s own tortured confession of murder and brainwashing and years spent lost in his own mind. “All right,” he says. “All right. I believe you. If anything else like this comes up again, can I trust you to handle it?”

Molly nods, once but steady. “Can you imagine,” he says to Fjord, half in a whisper, “what it would feel like to not feel anything about anything that had happened to you so far?”

Ruby blood sprays from Vandran’s throat along the edge of Avantika’s sword. Caleb’s fingers curl around Fjord’s. “No.”

“It’s very freeing,” continues Molly. “It’s the best thing – it’s the thing that happened to me. It’s not the best thing that happened to me, it’s the thing that happened to me. I found peace in building a new person.”

“You have powers, I’ve seen you use them,” says Fjord. One last thing, and then he’s prepared to leave this be. “Are those also part of this brand new you?”

“I think so, they started coming to me a month, a couple months after I woke up.” Molly smiles wryly. “They still surprise me sometimes, though.”

“Ain’t that how it goes,” mutters Fjord, and rises. “All right. Thank you for your honesty, I appreciate it.”

Molly sighs heavily, dropping his head and scratching at the base of one of his horns. “This was not how I expected this to go. Thank you.”

Beau sniffs. “For what it’s worth, I like you a little better now.” She pauses, adds, “You don’t have to reciprocate it.”

Eyeing her balefully, Molly says, “I like you both more and less at the same time.”

“I get that a lot,” she mutters.

They disperse to their rooms, Fjord sinking gratefully into the nicest bed he’s had since Nicodranus. He’s getting domestic, he thinks. Too used to living well, if he misses soft beds. Still. Maybe next ship he gets, he can rig up something a little better than the standard bunk.

There will be a next ship, Fjord promises himself. Faintly at the back of his mind, a deep bass voice seems to hum agreement.

Fjord closes his eyes.

He opens them again to flickering orange firelight.

Fear stops Fjord’s heart for a second before he recognizes the deck of the _Tide’s Breath_ , and knows therefore that this is a dream. Caleb stands before him again, embers swirling around him on the breeze, eyes gleaming with the light of the dancing flames. “Cay,” says Fjord, and he knows this is a dream, but gods, it feels so _real_. “Caleb. Can you hear me?”

Caleb just stares at him. His hands shine with a dark liquid that drips and sizzles on the boards below his feet.

“It’s all right,” says Fjord stupidly, reaching for Caleb. His fingers close on his sleeve.

Darkness howls, sweeping Fjord up with it, the dreamscape shattering into confused sensations. The burn of ash on his skin. Caleb’s lips, warm on Fjord’s. The taste of salt. The smell of smoke. Another glimpse of Caleb, this time with the moonlight silvering his hair. Vandran, his skin dry as parchment, his eyes dark empty sockets. A stab of pain in Fjord’s gut. Water, cold and dark, surrounding him. Flowing around him.

A single, yellow, massive eye.

Fjord floats in front of it, tiny and naked under its alien regard. “I know,” he says. “I know. I’ll come back.”

_CONSUME._

“Consume what?” says Fjord. “Am I on the right path? What do you want from me?”

_OBEY._

“Obey you in _what_?”

Two more eyes blink out of the darkness alongside the big one. _FIND._

“Find,” breathes Fjord. “Find what? Find Caleb?”

All three eyes close, plunging Fjord into darkness as sharp as a knife. The pain in Fjord’s stomach returns, a burning weight inside him, dragging him through the water, through his subconscious, up and back to waking –

Fjord wakes up with nausea erupting inside him, rolls over, and vomits seawater over the side of the bed.


	7. Act I, Scene 6

Fjord is taking an early breakfast in the Evening Nip, toast and butter and fried tomatoes, when he sees the Gentleman for the first time since Fjord’s arrival two days ago. Trying not to be obvious about it, Fjord tracks him as he descends the stairs from the second story and crosses the room.

He walks straight towards Fjord.

“Mornin’,” says Fjord, when the Gentleman is only a couple feet away and still very obviously headed towards him. The rest of the room is empty, though the door between the bar and kitchen is open, letting in the clinking of dishes, the chatter of several voices, and the smell of cooking bacon.

“Good morning.” The Gentleman seats himself on the edge of Fjord’s table, briefly glancing down at the remnants of food on his plate. He wears a dressing gown of rich, dark red velvet. “My contacts have gotten back to me.”

Fjord works hard to keep a neutral expression but he’s sure the Gentleman can read his sudden surge of excitement in his stifled breath, in the clenching of his hand on his knife. “And?” manages Fjord.

“And,” says the Gentleman, gaze roving around the room, “a man matching your description has been seen in Rexxentrum, in the company of members of the Cerberus Assembly.”

Cerberus Assembly – Fjord’s heard that before, he doesn’t remember where, maybe something Caleb told him? More wizards? Maybe Caleb’s found his place again among others more like him than vagabond pirates, and Fjord’s insides twist unhappily. “Recently?”

The Gentleman nods. “Mm. Once or twice over the past month, and only briefly.”

That’s all Fjord needs. “Right, then it’s time I take my leave,” he says, rising. “Thank you greatly for your assistance, I really appreciate it –”

“Fjord.” The Gentleman’s hand shoots out, closing on his wrist, and he skewers him with his gaze, dark eyebrows drawn low over silvery-blue eyes. “Jester has decided that, for whatever reason, when you and your little party leave she will go with you.”

“Oh,” says Fjord. “What? Why?”

“She likes her pets,” says the Gentleman dryly, and Fjord’s cheeks warm with humiliation. “For as long as you’ve caught her attention, at least, she’s determined to stay with you. I can’t stop her, nor would I if I could. But make no mistake, Fjord.” The Gentleman lowers his voice, cold and gentle as a deadly frost. “If she does not come back to me, unharmed, then there will not be large enough pieces of you left for the crows to eat.”

Fjord does not let himself flinch, does not let his face betray the chill on the back of his neck, even if his fingers itch for the falchion’s hilt. “Understood,” he says. “Sir.”

The skin under the Gentleman’s eyes tightens as he tries to figure out if Fjord is mocking him or not. “All right,” he says. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

\--

Possibly at Jester’s insistence, the Gentleman provides horses for Yasha, Molly, and Caduceus, meaning they can make much better time now as the traveling party heads deeper into the Empire, carving muddy ruts into the thin layer of snow and ice covering the road. A few hours out of Zadash, Fjord reins Shelby back to fall alongside Beau and Crapper. “Hey.”

Beau glances up at him, frowning. “Hey.”

“See you’re still stickin’ with us.”

“Yeah, because of _you_ ,” and she scowls. “You owe me, you know?”

Fjord considers this, looking at the white-coated road stretching before them under a blue-gray sky. “Do I?”

“ _Yes._ ” Crapper drops his head to mouth at some weeds poking up through the snow and Beau yanks upward on the reins, glaring at Fjord. “You dragged me halfway across the freaking continent –”

“Mm, now the way I recall, it was your choice to come along.” A bird flies far above them. Fascinating.

Beau exhales slowly and forcefully through her nose. “The deal was, I help you find Caleb, you tell me about the orb,” she says, her voice forcefully even. “You’re a lot closer to finding him, but you haven’t told me anything.”

She kind of has a point. Fjord adjusts the reins in his gloved hands. “Yeah? And how much did you help, exactly?”

Irritated, Beau huffs at him.

“All right, all right, all right.” Despite her prickliness, Fjord can’t help feeling like he does owe Beau something, especially after all the distance covered together. And she did catch an arrow out of thin air in front of him. “So. You know the Plank King’s got one orb, I’ve got another, right?”

She nods slowly, marine eyes tracking him. “The Plank King has the one he took from Avantika.”

“Mm-hm. Did I tell you he made it work for him? It’s in him now. Right in his noggin.”

“Huh,” says Beau. She sways back and forth with Crapper’s gait, digesting this. “So he has powers now, too.”

“Yup.” Fjord lets that sink in for a moment before summoning the falchion, Shelby snorting and twitching his ears back at the sudden spray of water. “You know how I got this?”

Beau eyes the sword warily. “No, I don’t. Did you get it when you got the orb?”

“I think so,” and Fjord explains about the explosion, about reaching for the orb as he sank into the depths, and about washing up on the shore with the sword next to him.

Beau’s frown deepens gradually as he talks until she sits deep in thought, Crapper’s reins loose in her hands. “You ever think,” she says slowly, “the explosion was a deliberate sabotage attempt by someone trying to get the orb, or at least keep you from having it?” She glances sharply up at Fjord. “You said Caleb was back with the Cerberus Assembly. And look, I know you don’t want to hear it, but what if he was acting on their orders –”

“No,” says Fjord, immediate and flat, jolting as Shelby nearly stumbles over a large rock. “Absolutely not –”

“Okay, but why not?”

“Because it don’t make no sense, that’s why not. Caleb gave the orb back to me that very night, he’d had it on him for weeks before, if his goal was to keep it or bring it back to the Assembly or somethin’ then why even let me have it –” then why stay with him, why sleep with him, why did Nott see sparks on his fingers – “Absolutely not. It don’t make no goddamn sense.”

“All right.” Beau gives Fjord a look he doesn’t quite like, both piercing and surprisingly sympathetic. “But maybe you should ask yourself why you’re going to so much trouble to find him, and he hasn’t even tried to contact you.”

Because he can’t, Fjord wants to say. Because he doesn’t know where I am or how to find me. But the doubt sowed by Beau’s words grows like a weed. “I don’t know,” he says at last. “There’s a lot I don’t know. And the only way to find out is to find _him._ ”

Beau opens her mouth, but her response is cut short when Crapper veers off to chew on a snow-dusted bush at the side of the road. Bemused, Fjord and Shelby watch as Beau yanks on the reins and snarls increasingly more colorful insults in a futile attempt to turn the mule back on the road. “Y’know, if you treat your mount with a little decency, he might actually listen to you,” remarks Fjord.

Without looking at Fjord, Beau flips him a middle finger.

Fjord’s fingers twitch as he leans into his sixth sense, feeling out the little dark tingles of power. If he reaches out, he can feel the returning vibrations from Beau and Crapper and Shelby, faint but distinct. He nudges at Crapper. _Hey,_ says Fjord. _Come back here_.

The mule’s long ears twitch wildly, like he’s trying to dislodge a fly. Fjord leans on his power a little harder. _I said, come_ here.

Immediately, Crapper stops tearing at the brush, wheels around, and trots back to Fjord, looking nearly as surprised at his sudden change of direction as Beau does. “Did you – was that – did you do that?” she asks Fjord.

“Like I said, a little decency goes a long way,” says Fjord haughtily, and he turns Shelby’s head and rides away.

\--

Golden light spills out of the arching windows of the Soltryce Academy and into the night as the carriage approaches, wheels clattering over the cobblestone street. Fjord leans out of the window, craning his neck to take in the ivory towers and spiraling walkways that rise high above the street. Even with the tension wringing his throat tight and clutching his stomach in an iron grip, he can’t help but be awed by the beauty and wealth on display. “Wow,” he murmurs, glancing up at the tallest tower where a crystal beacon glints like a star. “Sure is somethin’.”

From her seat opposite him, Jester smiles and looks out the window, the light gleaming on the gold and crystal ornaments dangling from her horns and ears. “It’s beautiful.” The carriage slows, joining the line of others drawing up to the Academy to discharge their honored passengers.

Fjord nods, surreptitiously wiping his sweaty palms on his thighs. The formal fashion of Rexxentrum is a far cry from the colored silk pants and long brightly-patterned coats of Nicodranus, and he feels stiff and constricted in the midnight blue jacket, charcoal-gray hose, and knee-high black boots polished within an inch of their life that Jester dressed him up like a doll in. A red silk sash, wrapped tightly around his waist, and golden clasps on the coat and a short decorative sword are the only flashes of color on the somber ensemble, and a fur-lined black cloak protects him from the freezing night air. “Feel like if I move in these clothes I’m gonna bust a seam,” he grumbles.

“You look _very_ handsome,” Jester reassures him. “Your ass is really great.” She winks.

Heat rises to Fjord’s cheeks and he looks back out the window, glowering, as Jester’s bubbling laugh fills the carriage. “Fjord, you get so _flustered!_ ” A mischievous light enters her eyes. “Does Caleb make you blush like that?”

The mental image of Caleb kneeling on Fjord’s lap, sunk to the hilt on Fjord’s cock, with his head tilted back and his throat fever-hot under Fjord’s hand, hits Fjord like a cannonball. He blushes deeper.

“Oooooh,” teases Jester lightly. She’s also dressed in the Rexxentrum fashion, swathed in yards and yards of ivory velvet, the skirt of her gown cinched just under the breasts in what she assures Fjord is the most popular style of the Empire. An undergown of gold brocade peeks out from beneath her billowing sleeves, and the scooped neckline leaves ample room for a ruby pendant to sparkle on her collarbone. Her own cloak of peach satin is lined in a rich tawny fur. “Oh, Fjord, I’m just teasing you.”

“I know,” snaps Fjord, harsher than he means to. “Maybe lay off a bit? I got enough on my mind as it is.”

The searching look Jester gives him is strikingly reminiscent of her mother. “All right.”

Harness jingles and wheels rattle as the carriage halts, Bluud rumbling “Whoa,” up above them. The wide wooden doors to the Academy are flung open at the top of the marble stairs, the light of a hundred magical orbs spilling out of them, and a purple-liveried footman steps forward to open the carriage door. “Good evening, ma’am,” he says, holding out a gloved hand to Jester, who daintily accepts it and steps out of the carriage, placing one slippered foot and then the other carefully on the snow-dusted cobblestones. “Sir.”

Fjord nods to him, oddly uncomfortable at someone calling him “Sir” when they’re not on his crew. Disentangling his cloak from the hilt of the ornamental rapier, he descends from the carriage and walks up beside Jester, offering her his arm. She tucks her hand in the crook of his elbow, holding her long skirts up with the other as they climb up the stairs. Behind them, Bluud clucks to the horses and they trundle off, another carriage rolling up in their place.

As Fjord and Jester join the line of guests heading up to the doors, Fjord looks around furtively, trying to see if any of the richly-dressed people are Caleb. But he sees no distinctive flash of copper hair, no narrow shoulders under a long black cloak. He’ll be here, Fjord reminds himself. The Gentleman’s contact in Rexxentrum, Ariadne, had shown Fjord a magically-obtained copy of the invitee list for this annual gala at the Academy. _Bren Ermendrud_ , it had said, and though Fjord tied his brain up in knots trying to guess the significance of Caleb going by his real name, he couldn’t come up with a conclusive answer.

They reach the doorway and another, more ostentatiously-dressed footman, who holds a plumed quill in one hand and a scroll on a wooden board in the other. “Names?” he says, in a Zemnian accent so snooty Fjord is half-convinced it’s false.

“Jester Lavorre,” Jester purrs. “And companion.”

The footman sniffs, holding up a crystal monocle to one eye as he peers at Jester and then Fjord. Small arcane glyphs mark the gold rim of the lens, which Fjord notices as the footman takes a long, long time scrutinizing him, gaze lingering pointedly on his scars and his mouth where the tusks should protrude. “Companion?” he remarks.

Not trusting himself to respond politely, Fjord nods.

Sniffing again, the footman makes a checkmark on the scroll and nods to Fjord and Jester. “Welcome to the Soltryce Academy, enjoy your evening.”

Jester gives the footman a very scathing look. “I will,” she says haughtily, lifting her chin, and marches further in with Fjord, where yet another footman takes their cloaks. The arching marble hall, its vaulted ceiling reminding Fjord of a cathedral, only extends a short distance before opening into a large paved courtyard, massive leafless trees standing in each corner and a tiered fountain rising in the middle, the water flowing merrily. Strings of multicolored glowing lights dance above everyone’s heads, and Fjord thinks wistfully of Caleb and his four little amber lights. Despite being outdoors again, it is much warmer here than on the street, and Fjord suspects magic is at work.

“So,” says Jester, scanning the guests gathered in the courtyard. “Do you see him?”

Fjord exhales slowly, heart pounding harder than he’d like to admit. “No.”

Jester’s hand on his arm gives him a little squeeze. “Well, let’s keep looking. Maybe he’s just not here yet.”

But as the evening grows longer, Fjord doubts that more and more. He takes his time, passing through the courtyard, the reception hall, and the main dining hall, trying to be inconspicuous as he looks over each and every guest as Jester flutters and flirts and socializes. At one point she leaves him, coming back with a small plate laden with petite desserts. “They have chocolate cake,” she says happily.

Red hair catches Fjord’s eye, but it belongs to a tall woman in a blue-and-gold gown. “Mm.”

“Try it,” Jester insists, holding a bite-sized morsel up.

Fjord takes the piece of cake from her and obediently eats it. His mouth is too dry for him to appreciate anything other than _sweet_. “Yeah, it’s real great.”

The aimless milling of the guests has turned into a slow but steady movement in a singular direction. “Looks like something’s happenin’,” says Fjord.

Jester perks up a little. “Let’s go see!”

Following the others, they cross the courtyard and come into the reception hall, a space just as marbled and grandiose as the rest of the buildings. At the far end, stairs rise up to a balustraded landing, from which more stairs curve up and back to arched doorways leading deeper into the building.

A man stands on the landing, human, advanced in years, his parchment-like skin creased and his brilliantly-white hair swept back from a high forehead and flourishing eyebrows. His long crimson robes are so thick with gold and silver embroidery that they hang stiffly off his angular frame, rather than drape elegantly to the floor. “You know who that his?” Fjord mutters to Jester, mindful of the other gala guests gathered around them.

Jester frowns, considering, but a liveried master of ceremonies answers the question for her, banging an ornate staff on the marble floor. “Archmage Zivan Margolin, Headmaster of the Soltryce Academy!” he announces. The chattering among the guests die down as they turn to face the Archmage, all clustered on the floor at the foot of the stairs.

He’s not the only one up there. Fjord sees others – a silver-haired elf in blue robes, a sharp-faced half-elf woman dressed in green and black, a solid, brown-skinned man with strangely dark eyes, and even more behind them that Fjord can’t quite make out – standing behind and off to the side of Archmage Margolin. The Archmage himself smiles, holding his hands out in a gesture of welcome. “Greetings, my friends,” he says, voice carrying clearly across the hall though he speaks quietly and evenly. “It is good, to see so many familiar faces here tonight, in recognition of the best and brightest among us and the future of the Empire.” Fjord notices another cluster of people standing by him, these all older teenagers in crisp red uniforms. Their expressions range from flushed pride to faint discomfort.

“Now more than ever,” intones Archmage Margolin, “education and training are vital to safeguarding our lives and our homes against the darkness that rises in the East. The Soltryce Academy remains dedicated to these efforts…”

Blah, blah, blah, thinks Fjord. He keeps scanning the heads in the crowd in front of him, looking for Caleb but not finding him. Maybe he’s not here after all, Fjord thinks hollowly. Maybe he just decided not to come. Or maybe someone else has the same name.

Movement up at the top of the stairs catches Fjord’s eye as the gathered mages part to let one of their number step forward, another old human man with long white hair and a smile of dry superiority. In the space behind him stand several others in black robes, and a sudden glimpse of a familiar face stops Fjord’s heart –

“Thank you, Headmaster,” says the other old man, pacing up beside him. The ranks of mages close again, blocking off Fjord’s view of the black-robed people, and he stands on tiptoe and cranes his head frantically to try and see them. It – it _couldn’t_ have been Caleb up there, could it? All Fjord saw was copper hair and the shape of a face and the man _looked_ like Caleb but not like Fjord remembers, too quickly seen for Fjord to be sure. “As always, I am immensely proud to take on those few, brightest stars from the firmament here and guide them towards a grander future –”

“What are you doing?” Jester whispers.

Fjord leans to the side so far he bumps into the woman next to him, who mutters and draws in her brocaded skirts, and then leans back the other way. “Think I saw him,” he mutters, heart hammering, throat tight.

Jester’s indigo eyes widen. “Caleb? Where?”

Not trusting himself to speak, Fjord nods up at where the old mage drones on and on. Jester rises on her tiptoes, biting her lip and hanging onto Fjord for balance, but she doesn’t have Fjord’s height and can see even less. “Behind the others?” she whispers.

“Mm.”

Eventually the old man stops talking and withdraws with a slight bow to Archmage Margolin. Fjord holds his breath, hoping for another glimpse of the man who had been standing behind him, but the other mages don’t shift. “Thank you, Archmage Ikithon,” says Archmage Margolin, with a returning tilt of his head. “Your dedication to the Empire is more evident than ever.”

Archmage Ikithon.

Fjord’s heard that before.

Where has he heard that before?

 _Caleb standing on the deck of the_ Tide’s Breath _, hood over his head, cat on his shoulders, self-recrimination on his face in the silver-blue moonlight. “I met a man named Trent Ikithon. He became our teacher.”_

The blood in Fjord’s veins turns to ice, pulse pounding hollowly in his temples and drowning out any words being said. Deep inside him, something dark and hungry rumbles.

“Fjord,” whispers Jester worriedly, “are you okay? You look funny…”

It takes every drop of self-control he has not to summon the falchion right then and there.

The speeches have ended by the time Fjord can see and hear clearly again, vaguely aware of the others around him giving him strange glances. The grouping of mages at the top of the stairs begins to break up and disperse, some descending, others heading up towards the gallery. Archmage Ikithon is one of the first to ascend, his black-robed cohort following after him, and –

It’s Caleb.

It’s absolutely Caleb.

But Fjord can see now why he was so unsure.

Caleb’s hair has been cropped short and slicked severely back, the oiled ends barely curling against the nape of his neck, and his beard shaved completely away. The tan and freckles he gained on the _Tide’s Breath_ are long gone, his skin pale as bone and drawn tight over a jaw and cheekbones sharper even than Fjord remembers. With grey shadows under his eyes, his gaze is a flat, thousand-yard-stare, and he follows Archmage Ikithon with stiff, halting movements.

Heart pounding so hard he can hardly breathe, Fjord stares up at Caleb and he knows, he knows right away, _something is wrong_. He should do something, rush up and grab Caleb, sweep him off, rescue him, _something_ , but he can only stand frozen in horror as he watches Caleb climb up the stairs after Archmage Ikithon and approach the dark yawning door –

The shout bursts out of Fjord before he can think. “ _Caleb_!”

Everyone in the hall falls quiet, turning to look at Fjord.

Caleb freezes at the top of the stairs, his back to Fjord, who starts pushing through the crowd to get to him, heedless of Jester trying to grab his arm. “Caleb!” Fjord yells again, hoarse with desperation. “Cay, it’s me, it’s Fjord –”

The rigid, black-clad shoulders do not move.

Someone does take hold of Fjord, except this someone is far too big and burly to be Jester. “Caleb!” Fjord shouts again, straining against the Crownsguard’s grasp. “Caleb!”

Finally, Caleb turns, looking down into the crowd. His eyes meet Fjord’s, gray as slate. There is no recognition in them.

“Bren?” Archmage Ikithon steps up alongside Caleb, an eyebrow raised. “A friend of yours?”

For the first time, Caleb’s blank face betrays a spark of movement before settling back into a death mask. “No,” says Caleb flatly. “I do not know him.” And he turns back to Archmage Ikithon.

Fjord stares helplessly after Caleb as he leaves, the air in his lungs crystallizing. “Sir, you need to leave,” says a second Crownsguard, grabbing hold of Fjord’s other arm and starting to urge him back.

The movement spurs Fjord to action. “Caleb!” he roars again, struggling to break free of the Crownsguard, scandalized murmurs rising up around him. The guards drag him back, farther and farther away from the doorway that Caleb disappeared into – “No! CALEB!”

“Stop that shouting,” snaps one of the mages, the silver-haired elf, and Fjord’s mouth clicks shut against his will. Fjord yells in his throat, trying to reach for the falchion, but where his power should be is only a null. He thrashes again in the grip of the Crownsguard, their gauntleted hands gripping him painfully tight. Their gauntlets, which are laced with dull lead.

Fjord can’t talk and he can’t do magic but he sure as hell makes it a fight for them to drag him out, trying to reach for that stupid decorative sword, until one Crownsguard brings his armored fist right into Fjord’s temple. Colored patches bloom across Fjord’s vision and his head swims, his knees buckling as the Crownsguard haul him across the courtyard and through the entrance hall, Jester hurrying after with indignant protests.

They reach the top of the marble stairs and toss Fjord forward, and he trips and rolls and lands in the snow-filled gutter, body aching, fury and fear coursing through him, as an icy rain begins to fall down on him, soaking his hair. He can open his mouth again.

“Fjord!” Jester hurries down to kneel beside him, heedless of the rain ruining her fine dress. “Are you all right?”

“I ain’t hurt,” rasps Fjord, pushing himself up on his arms, because that, at least, is true. But is he all right?

He thinks of the dead look in Caleb’s eyes when he looked at Fjord, and how he said “I do not know him,” and thinks he may never be all right again.


	8. Act II, Scene 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things start getting bad.

**Several months ago**

Coughing and spluttering, Caleb washes up onto the sandy beach, finally abandoning the chunk of the _Tide’s Breath’_ s deck that kept him afloat. He stumbles forward, legs wobbly, and another wave knocks him down into the sand.

Caleb blinks saltwater out of his eyes, wet tangled hair covering his face, and crawls forward until he reaches dry sand. Collapsing, he rolls onto his back and stares up at the sun blazing in a brilliant blue sky, panting for breath. _You’re alive_ , he tells himself, closing his eyes and listening to his ragged inhales. _You made it. You’re alive._

He allows himself three minutes to rest before sitting up, instinctually checking for his spell components pouch before remembering – it’s not there. It fell out of his pocket during the explosion and is somewhere at the bottom of the ocean along with his spell books. _They can be replaced_ , Caleb tells himself, staving off the rising panic in his chest. _You started from scratch before and you can do it again. You’re fine, as long as you still have_ –

The charm.

Pure, blind terror sweeps over Caleb as he fumbles at his neck for the little fetish of bone and metal that’s the only thing shielding him from Trent’s searching eyes, the only protection he has from Trent, the only thing keeping him safe, and it’s _not there_ , it’s not around his neck, he can’t find –

Caleb searches desperately around his neck, checking his hair in case the leather cord got tangled there, even stripping off his shirt and shaking it out, but nothing. Scrabbling frantically in the beach around him, Caleb comes up with nothing but handfuls of sand and pebbles. “No,” mutters Caleb, his heart pounding so hard he can barely think, hands trembling. “No no no no –”

The more he searches, the more he churns up the sand until deep grooves and small piles obscure any hope he had of finding the charm. Kneeling with his hands sunk in a damp layer of sand, Caleb stares at the beach in front of him with white noise ringing in his ears. If it’s not here, then – then where –

The planks, thinks Caleb with desperate hope, and scrambles over to where he left the piece of the deck half-wedged in the wet sand. Dragging it back out of the waves, Caleb drops back to his knees and scours the entire piece, sinking his fingers into every crack between the boards, turning it over and looking even harder, but still no charm. He digs in, prying away saltwater-soaked splinters until his fingernails bleed, but at last Caleb has to accept it. His warding charm is gone.

Once Caleb stops moving, the panic overtakes him, seizing his lungs in its bony grip, and he sits back on the sand and grabs his head in his hands and gasps for air. Each breath scrapes high and fast over his saltwater-raw throat, his ribs jumping and constricting. His hands are numb, his fingers tingling. He can’t breathe. Sand covers the knees of his pants. He can’t breathe. Someone makes a high-pitched whimpering sound, and that’s him. He can’t breathe.

Eventually, Caleb wears himself out, the gasping sobs subsiding into long, shaky breaths. His head spins, and Caleb lies down in the warm damp sand, curling in around himself. He licks his salty lips; they sting, chapped and split. When he can feel his fingers again, he starts to think. _Ikithon hasn’t found you yet_. This is true. _Get up and get moving._

I don’t know if I can.

 _Yes, you can._ The voice in his head is warm, steady, with the distinctive twang of Port Demali. _C’mon_.

Groaning, Caleb pushes himself up to sitting. The sun beats down on him, his hair crusting with salt as it dries. Salt dries on his skin as well. Willing himself to move, Caleb clambers to his feet, staggering to where he left his shirt. He picks it up, shakes as much sand off as he can. Pulls the shirt on. There’s still sand in its folds, and it scratches on his skin. Bits of driftwood and rock and seashells jab the soles of his feet.

Stumbling up the sandy beach, Caleb crests the ridge and comes onto a road, wide and chalky. Beyond the road, gently rolling hills covered in green grass meet a broad copse of trees on the horizon. Seagulls fly overhead, crying mournfully.

They were approaching Nicodranus when the _Tide’s Breath_ exploded. This must be the coast near it, although Caleb has no idea how far away he is from the city, or which direction it’s in. The road is open and empty for the moment, thankfully, and Caleb runs across and into the hills, heading for the trees. He doesn’t stop until he’s in their cover, no longer in view of the road. It feels a little safer here, under their shade with the branches and brush enclosing him, and Caleb leans against a tree to catch his breath.

He doesn’t want to think about the explosion. Doesn’t want to think about the wild look in Sabian’s eyes, doesn’t want to think about Fjord still sleeping peacefully when the ship burst asunder into flames. He doesn’t have time for that right now. He has to survive.

He _will not_ think about Fjord being dead, because that will cripple him, and Caleb cannot afford that right now.

Sighing, Caleb tilts his head back against the tree trunk, staring up at the mosaic of green leaves and blue sky above him. He has neither the strength nor the skills to survive out in the countryside; already thirst claws at his throat, hunger gnawing at his stomach. He needs to find civilization, whether it’s Nicodranus or a smaller hamlet. A large city comes with more opportunities to hide himself, but also more watchful eyes.

It’s already nearly noon, and Caleb does not want to be out in the wild when night falls if he can help it. Walking carefully to avoid stepping on any sharp twigs or stones, Caleb exits the woods and returns to the road, the long pale curve of it stretching away in both directions. Caleb turns his head, considering one direction and then the other. Eventually, if for no other reason than it takes him further from the Empire, he chooses south, and begins walking.

\--

When the caravan of brightly-painted covered wagons reaches him, Caleb does not blame them for giving him a wide berth. He knows what he looks like – a ragged, dirty, poorly-clothed man, staggering down the road on bleeding feet as the sun arcs low in the sky. But the first one in the line slows, the stocky palomino horse pulling the wagon snorting as the elf driving pulls on its reins. “Good evening, friend,” he calls warily, voice heavily accented. “Are you in need of assistance?” He has brown skin and dark hair combed and braided neatly, dressed in a style Caleb vaguely recognizes as Gwardan.

Stumbling to a halt, Caleb eyes the man with apprehension, wondering dazedly if he is trap set for him by Ikithon. “Water,” he croaks. His cracked lips sting.

The man’s eyes widen slightly and he turns, speaking to someone inside the caravan behind him in a dialect of Elvish Caleb doesn’t recognize. A woman, also an elf, pokes her head out from within the turquoise wooden shelter, brindled braid swinging over one shoulder. “Who are you?” she demands.

“My name is Caleb Widogast,” Caleb rasps, holding his empty hands up. “I am a survivor of a shipwreck. I need water.” Water, then without this burning thirst he can _think_.

The man and the woman eye each other, conversing rapidly in Elvish, before the woman sighs and disappears back inside the wagon. Caleb catches a brief glimpse of two round childish faces peeking at him curiously before the woman snaps something and they vanish back within the wagon as well. “A shipwreck?” says the man, brow now furrowed in concern. “Where?”

“Farther north.” Caleb points vaguely. “I have been walking for a while.” The other wagons have reached them and halted as well, more tawny elves peering curiously at him or craning their necks to see what the holdup is. “Where are you headed?”

“Nicodranus.” The man glances back as the woman, presumably his wife, reemerges with a small clay pitcher that she cautiously reaches over to hand to Caleb. Her golden eyes are sharp, distrustful; Caleb understands. He slowly takes the pitcher from her and brings it to his lips, swallowing only a little. It is water, warm and flat, but still water.

Tilting his head back, Caleb drains the pitcher, parched throat easing. “Thank you,” he says, handing the pitcher back to the woman, who sits back and inclines her head slightly.

“We can take you to Nicodranus,” offers the man. “If you like.” Glancing at the woman, he says, “My name is Philon Varedes, and this is my wife, Amynta.”

Caleb sees the burning remains of caravans on the road, the brightly-painted shells going up in flames with charred bodies inside, large and small. “No,” he rasps. “I am a wanted man. It would be too dangerous.”

Philon and Amynta both frown, though for clearly different reasons. One of the children pokes her head out again, and Amynta scolds her back inside. “Are you sure?” says Philon. “It is a long walk to Nicodranus –”

The cuts on Caleb’s aching feet sting and burn. “How long?”

Considering, Philon says, “A few hours for us, maybe. It will be well into the night before you get there.” His horse snorts and tosses its head, long creamy mane rippling.

Well, if Caleb collapses on the side of the road and Ikithon swoops down to retrieve his body, then at least these people will be free and clear. “I will manage.”

Philon hesitates, and then bends down to pull off his shoes, plain leather ankle boots. “Here,” he says, and holds them out to Caleb. “Then at least take these.”

Caleb stares at him, the few tears his body can muster stinging his eyes, shame and gratitude and bewilderment swirling inside him, clogging up his throat. “I…” he rasps. “I cannot possibly.”

Amynta frowns and says something in Elvish again to Philon, who does not look away from Caleb. “Please,” he says, holding the shoes a little further out. “I insist.”

Swallowing, Caleb reaches out and accepts the shoes. “Thank you,” he croaks.

Dark eyebrows pulled together, Philon nods. “Stay safe, friend,” he says, and clucks to the horse, snapping the reins. With a lurch, the wagon starts forward again, and Caleb limps back to the side of the road to let the caravans pass by, holding the shoes in one hand. He tries not to make eye contact with any of the other elves glancing at him curiously; better for them if they don’t know his face well. Once the last wagon has rolled by, Caleb lowers himself to the ground and wincing, brushes dirt off his feet as best he can. Blood smears over the soles of his feet, turning the pale dust into trails of red mud.

Pulling the shoes on – they fit reasonably well, if a little large, the leather soft and worn – Caleb hauls himself back onto his feet. At least now he knows which direction it is to Nicodranus. Steeling himself, he limps down the road after the caravans, watching the sun sink lower and lower in the sky.

By the time he sees the glow of Nicoodranus’ torches on the horizon, it is hours into the night and Caleb’s feet throb painfully with blisters on his heels and toes. He limps along, legs shaking under him, until he can see the adobe-daubed wall ringing the city, with the broad metal portcullis lowered and the torchlight that gleams on the chain mail and helmets of the posted Zhelezo. Ducking off the road, Caleb finds the shelter of a copse of trees and sinks to the ground, back against a tree trunk.

Every bone in his body aches with exhaustion and his heavy eyelids sting and Caleb considers just curling up on the ground and falling asleep right here. But he knows from the gnawing pain in his stomach and the fuzzy feeling at the top of his head and the way his hands shake that he needs food, and badly. If he falls asleep now he risks waking too depleted to fend for himself.

Caleb allows himself five minutes to rest, counting out each second in time with his breath. And then – gods, he doesn’t want to, he _really_ doesn’t want to – he drags himself upright, stifling a groan of pain as he puts weight back on his battered feet. The gates have been closed for the night, but maybe there’s another way into the city. Not returning to the main road but staying parallel to it, Caleb approaches Nicodranus, trying to keep to the cover of shrubs and trees as much as possible.

Skirting around the city to the landward side, Caleb eventually comes to a place where the wall has been partially torn down and is being rebuilt, scaffolds framing the exposed brick and rubble. Caleb crouches behind a large rock, assessing. It has been a long time since Nicodranus was at war. There is only one guard, and he yawns as he paces along the section under construction.

What Caleb wouldn’t give to be able to use magic right now. He’s going to have to sprint for it, and the thought of running on his blistered and bloody feet makes him want to cry. But there’s nothing for it, so when the guard turns his back, Caleb grits his teeth and _runs_.

His knees buckle on the first step, pain lancing up his feet and ankles, and Caleb nearly pitches face-first into the ground. But he stumbles and keeps his balance through sheer momentum, staggering forward through the torchlight, clambering over the lowest point in the wall, and falling to the ground on the other side, out of sight of the guard.

Or so he thought.

“Hey!” shouts the Zhelezo. “Stop! You there!”

Caleb lurches forward onto his feet again, trying to run, but the cobbles are uneven and slick with sewer runoff and he can’t get his legs under him and he falls onto the stones, scraping his palms and rolling onto his side with a groan. Clanking, the Zhelezo rushes up and holds his spear out, gleaming blade inches from Caleb’s nose.

Breathing hard, his heart hammering and his feet throbbing with jagged pain, Caleb holds his hands up, empty-palmed. He hopes the dirt and sand on his face is enough to keep him from being immediately recognized. “Who are you?” demands the Zhelezo. He is an older human, salt-and-pepper beard trimmed short and eyes a sharp and suspicious blue.

Caleb says the first name that pops into his head. “Philip Stone.”

“Philip, eh?” Flipping his spear, the Zhelezo prods Caleb with the butt end of it. “On your feet, you’re going to be a guest of the Zhelezo tonight.”

As he slowly stands, Caleb tries his best not to wince but is unable to hide the spasm of pain on his face as the open sores on his feet shriek. The insides of his shoes are gummy with blood and fluids from popped blisters. Without the need to keep moving driving him forward, the pain is unignorable, and each step makes him falter and gasp. “I don’t have all night,” grumbles the Zhelezo, prodding Caleb again with his spear, making him nearly stumble and fall. “What’s wrong with your feet?”

“I have been walking a long while,” manages Caleb hoarsely.

“Well, you’ll be walking a little bit farther.”

The distance isn’t more than a mile, but it feels much greater to Caleb as he staggers through the nighttime streets of Nicodranus, an ocean vapor hanging over the rooftops and causing yellow halos around the flickering streetlamps. Eventually they reach a Zhelezo station, where the wall guard delivers him with a few curt sentences of explanation to the sergeant, who puts Caleb in an iron-barred cell with what looks to be four other drunks, homeless, or other people the Zhelezzo consider public menaces. Claiming an unoccupied space against the wall, Caleb sinks to the ground, the damp stones leaching a chill into his pants. “Do you have any food?” he rasps to the sergeant.

“You’ll be fed in the morning, same as everyone else,” and the sergeant shuts the bars with a clang, locking them. He walks away without another word.

Of the four in the cell, two are asleep, snoring loudly and brokenly, and reeking of alcohol. The third is a ragged, dark-haired elf who watches Caleb warily from angled eyes, and the fourth a human girl of probably no more than eleven or twelve who hunches in the corner, occasionally sniffling and whimpering.

Well, if he is not going anywhere, then Caleb might as well take off his shoes. Grimacing, he starts to peel off his shoes and oh _gods_ it stings, his broken skin stuck to the leather. Hissing and trying not to cry out, tears smarting in his eyes, Caleb slowly and excruciatingly tears the shoe off of his foot. In the dim moonlight coming through the small high cell window, all he can make out is the darker shapes of scrapes and sores, open wounds burning as they become exposed to the air. He stinks of salt and sweat and pus. And he still has another shoe to take off.

Across the cell from him, the elf raises his eyebrows. “That don’t look good, ne?”

“No,” mutters Caleb. He wants to ask for water, to rinse his feet off, but he suspects that is a commodity as tightly controlled as food. “It does not feel good either.”

The elf watches him as Caleb forces himself through the same painful process of removing his other shoe. In her corner, the girl has stopped crying. “Those gonna be infected,” observes the elf. Caleb grunts acknowledgment.

He aches, suddenly, for a cooling touch on his fevered skin. Not just for his wounds to be healed, but for broad, steady fingers to press into his aching arches, to rub gently along his ankles and tired calves. To hear Fjord say, _There now, you did it, it’s over now. You’re safe here._

Caleb will not think about Fjord being dead. He will not.

Or maybe, thinks Caleb, Uk’atoa granted Fjord his favor like he did Avantika. Maybe Fjord is a piscine abomination now, gills and fins distorting his handsome face, his loyalty and honor subsumed by Uk’atoa’s ambition. Caleb doesn’t know if that would be better or worse than death. He doesn’t think he wants to know. He settles instead for folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against the wall, trying for some semblance of comfort. His body is so drained that he nearly manages it. “Sleep now, while you can,” says the elf. “Moonweaver watches us for a few hours yet.”

Moonweaver, thinks Caleb foggily. Didn’t Molly used to worship her?

And despite his hunger and thirst and aching body, Caleb falls asleep.

\--

He wakes to the harsh jangling of cell bars being opened. “This one, ma’am?” says the sergeant. “Are you sure?”

Caleb bolts awake, eyes snapping open.

A tall, lean woman stands on the other side of the cell bars, straight dark brown hair falling across one side of her face, intense eyes and straight eyebrows visible over a gray mask covering her mouth and nose. She wears knee-high black boots and a close-fitting uniform of dark gray cloth, clasped in gold across the chest. A red, shield-shaped patch on her breast depicts an owl, two stalks of wheat, and a crown in silver thread. Though Caleb does not know her personally, he knows exactly who she is. “So,” he rasps, too spent and in pain to bother with useless subterfuge. Fever hums underneath his skin, and he does not need to look at his swollen and aching feet to know the sores have become infected. He can smell it anyway. “Did Trent send you, or the Crown?”

“This one,” she says, to the sergeant.

“Do you understand Zemnian?” asks Caleb, in that tongue. “Are you another one of Trent’s best and brightest, raised up by him from the rest of those superstitious peasants?” Everyone else in the cell stays silent and pressed up against the walls, not looking at Caleb or anyone else.

The Volstrucker ignores Caleb. “I need lead bindings,” she says to the sergeant. “And I want a transport cart ready to leave in an hour. My associates should be here by then.”

“With all due respect, ma’am,” says the sergeant, doing a credible impersonation of a man staying calm, “you are not a member of the Zhelezo nor a representative of the Clovis Concord and therefore have no authority to request these things –”

Raising her eyebrows, the Volstrucker says, “I am an agent of the Dwendalian Empire, sent to retrieve a dangerous criminal, who miraculously has not burned down your entire city yet. You would do well to aid me, Sergeant, in the interest of cooperation between your authorities and mine.” The air around her snaps and crackles like the air before a lightning strike.

“You should listen to her, you know,” says Caleb hoarsely, his head falling back against the wall. His vision blurs and he has to blink several times to refocus. “She will kill you if you don’t. Like that. Zap.” He snaps his fingers feebly.

“The manacles in particular, Sergeant.” The Volstrucker folds her arms. “Why this man has not already magicked his way out of prison, I do not know, but count yourself lucky that you are alive.” She casts an appraising eye over Caleb. “And maybe a bucket of water as well.”

Caleb holds out both wrists towards her. “Go on, cuff me,” he says, his voice raised so it bounces off the brick walls. “Take me back to your master. Maybe then he will feed you treats like the good little lap dog you are!”

Over her mask, the Volstrucker gives him a long, hard look. Caleb wills himself to look back, ignoring frantic hammering of his heart, the stabbing pain in his feet, the delirious swirling in his head. He should be afraid. Deep down in his animal brain, he is. But any feelings glide off him like a touch on an oiled pane.

The sergeant seems to come to a decision, straightening his shoulders. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Right away.”

“Good.” The Volstrucker nods. “And send a doctor if you have one, I don’t want him to die of infection before I get him into the Empire.”

They drag Caleb out into a second cell, his legs buckling underneath him, and leave him shivering on the floor while the sergeant retrieves a set of lead manacles and a muzzle. “No,” croaks Caleb weakly, dull terror setting in at the sight of the chains. “You don’t need to, I cannot cast anything, I am useless –”

Entering the cell, the Volstrucker pushes Caleb flat onto his stomach and yanks his hands behind his back, cuffing them together despite his feeble struggles. The lead feels like ice on his overheated skin, leaching the warmth out of Caleb, and his stomach turns. “Please,” he begs, his face pressed to the filthy floor, the Volstrucker’s knee digging into his spine. “Don’t –”

The Volstrucker grabs his hair in one hand, yanking his head back so the sergeant can buckle the muzzle around Caleb’s face. Growling, Caleb tries to twist away but the hand in his hair remains firm, and he is powerless as the heavy metal locks around his jaw.

The knee on his back disappears, the sergeant getting to his feet as well, leaving Caleb staring at the floor an inch under his nose. His head feels fuzzy and hot, his skin prickly. His breath collects warm and damp inside the muzzle.

Cold water splashes down on him, soaking his head and shoulders, and Caleb splutters and rolls over just in time to see the Volstrucker dump a second bucket onto him. “Better,” she says, while Caleb coughs into the muzzle and snorts water out of his nose. “Now, Sergeant, about that wagon?”

They leave him alone, locking the cell door. Caleb curls up on his side, water dripping down his forehead and neck, and tries to think. It’s difficult. He wants his cat. He can’t stop shivering. He does not, unfortunately, lose track of time; if anything, each second ticks by agonizingly slow. Twenty-three minutes later, the cell door opens again, and Caleb lifts his aching head to see who entered. It’s the Volstrucker, this time accompanied by a pale, weedy man in a uniform of light blue robes, a satchel hanging from his shoulder. “Ah,” says the man, looking nervous. “Ma’am?”

She jerks her head at Caleb. “Get his feet wrapped up and give him something to bring the fever down.” The Volstrucker holds up a small leather pouch in one gloved hand, metal clinking inside.

The doctor nods, swallowing. “Yes, ma’am.”

Slowly, he kneels down next to Caleb, who wants to swear and hiss at him but can’t muster the energy. Instead, he lies there, shivering, as the doctor reaches for the clasp on the muzzle and then looks back at the Volstrucker. “May I take this off?”

Eyes watchful, she nods once. Caleb wonders what she looks like under the mask and why she never takes it off. Maybe she was burned by acid, or something like that. Surely it is not terribly comfortable.

The doctor unbuckles the muzzle, letting it clunk to the floor, and then pulls out a slender vial filled with a clear red liquid and stopped with a cork. “Here,” says the doctor, and props up Caleb’s head with one hand, bringing the vial to his lips with the other. “Drink this.”

Caleb knows a health potion when he sees one. He weighs dying of fever against seeing Ikithon again, and presses his lips shut.

Sighing, the Volstrucker strides over, crouches down, and grabs Caleb’s jaw in her hands, forcing it open. He tries to bite her fingers. “Pour it in,” orders the Volstrucker, as Caleb gags and tries unsuccessfully to break free. In one swift motion, the doctor tips the contents of the vial into Caleb’s mouth, the Volstrucker immediately not only closing his mouth but covering it and his nose with her gloved hand until Caleb is forced to swallow, glaring at her.

The effects of the potion are immediate. A cooling tingle spreads over Caleb’s body, leaving his mind clearer and the shakiness lessened, the hot prickles of fever gone. His feet hurt less, too. “All this effort,” Caleb rasps at her once his mouth is free, “to keep me alive, when we both know Ikithon is –”

She shoves the muzzle back onto him, buckling it in place, and Caleb glares. The doctor has already begun applying a poultice that smells sharply of herbs and earth to Caleb’s feet, the mashed plants cool on his skin but stinging fiercely in the open sores.

Sinking lower into her crouch, the Volstrucker turns Caleb’s face up towards her, and for the first time he sees the glimmer of something other than blunt practicality in her eyes. “You should count yourself lucky,” she whispers, “if you die before reaching the Archmage.” The sleeve of her gray uniform pulls up, baring an inch of skin at her wrist crossed by silvery scars.

 _Would you help with that?_ Caleb wants to ask. But the muzzle holds his jaw firmly in place.

Eventually, the doctor finishes with his work, accepting the bag of coin from the Volstrucker and scurrying away. As he does, the sergeant comes down instead, mouth stretched tight in worry under his gray mustache. “Ma’am, your wagon is outside, as well as two of your associates, I believe…”

“Good. Send them down here.”

The Volstrucker stands, watching the hallway through which they’ll come, and Caleb finds room for a new terror. Who are these others coming to join her? Astrid and Eodwulf, maybe? He would have expected one of them to find him first, not this other woman, but maybe she was already in the area…

Caleb does not know if he can handle seeing either one of them. He supposes he has no choice.

He’d hoped, privately, that both of them managed to get away.

He’d be lying if he said he never wanted to see either of them again.

To his bittersweet relief, the two Volstrucker that enter are entirely unfamiliar, one a tall, blonde half-elf woman with haughty eyebrows, and the other a bald human male of indeterminate age with an intricate tattoo spiderwebbing along one side of his head, both dressed in gray uniforms and masked. They buckle a lead fetter around Caleb’s ankles so he can do no more than shuffle forward and haul him to his feet. It hurts, but Caleb lurches upright with a stifled groan, determined to stay standing. He can manage it. The Volstruckers fasten a lead collar around his neck, loop a chain around his waist, and run another chain linking the two, pulled in front of Caleb like a leash. The first Volstrucker keeps hold of this. “Let’s go,” she snaps at the other two, and yanks Caleb forward. He stumbles, hobbled, and nearly falls again, head spinning with hunger. “I want to get him back as soon as possible.”

The bald man remains impassive, and the blonde half-elf looks coolly disdainful. Neither of them say anything as they march Caleb out of the Zhelezzo station and into the prison wagon that stands waiting, a team of four horses hitched and ready to go.

At the sight of the small barred windows, blind panic sets in, and Caleb digs his heels, struggling furiously against the two holding his arms. _No_ , he tries to say, though only muffled cries make it through his lips. _No, I won’t go back, I won’t, I won’t, I cannot –_

Merciless, they throw Caleb in, locking the door behind him. A moment later, the wagon sways as all three climb aboard. “Go!” barks the first Volstrucker, and a horse whinnies as the wagon jerks forward, hooves pounding on the stones and wheels rumbling. Caleb lies on the hard floor, head pounding with each jolt over uneven cobbles, and breathes hard against the rising tide of despair. _You survived this once_ , he tells himself. _You can survive it again._

That’s all he has to do.

Survive.


	9. Act II, Scene 2

They make breakneck time up into the Empire, driving the horses until exhaustion and stopping only to swap them out for fresh beasts at waystations and inns. The only interaction Caleb has with his captors is when they let him out in the mornings and evenings to relieve himself and choke down some water and bread and cheese. The rest of the time, they keep Caleb chained and muzzled in lead and locked inside the wagon where he has nothing to do but sit there for hours on end and think.

Thinking is harder than he hoped for, his thoughts muzzy and disjointed. It is not until the evening of the second day that Caleb realizes they’ve been drugging his food or drink, or both, not trusting only the lead to keep him still and docile. He thinks about refusing to eat and drink, but given how the Volstrucker forced a healing potion down his throat, he has an idea of how that would go.

He wonders what Ikithon told them, that they find him that dangerous.

He supposes if he had residuum at his disposal, the trouble would be worth it.

On the morning of the fifth day, the half-elf opens the wagon door, Caleb blinking blearily at her through the headache left by the narcotics and poor sleep. “There is a stream nearby,” says the Volstrucker. “You can bathe here. If you wish.”

Caleb stares at her.

She nods her head back at the countryside behind her, where Caleb can make out a stream burbling through the summer-green landscape. “Come on, we are not going to be here all morning.”

Not taking his attention off the Volstrucker, Caleb inches forward. He has to scoot across the floor of the wagon because he can’t get up with his hands and feet shackled. When he reaches the door, the Volstrucker takes Caleb’s arm and helps him out of the wagon. His feet have healed somewhat, enough he can walk with only a mild limp. The speed of healing leads him to supsect they’ve his food with healing potions as well. She leads him over to the stream, and then –

“I am taking a chance by doing this, a very big chance,” she whispers forcefully, and unbuckles his muzzle. “Do not repay my kindness by fucking me over.”

Caleb has already learned that attempting to brute-force an escape will get him nowhere. His most recent attempt resulted in the first Volstrucker hitting him with a lightning spell that left Caleb gasping and convulsing on the ground. He’s going to have to rely on subtler methods. “What is your name?” he asks quietly.

The Volstrucker eyes him, considering. “Pierova,” she says at last. Her accent is tinged northern, farther north than even Rexxentrum. Nogvurot, maybe.

“Pierova,” repeats Caleb. “Thank you.”

She nods, unclasping his manacles, and jerks her head over at the stream, still holding the end of Caleb’s chain firmly. Shuffling over to the water’s edge, Caleb kneels and scoops up water, splashing it over his face and running his wet hands through his tangled hair. He rubs down his neck and forearms as well, watching as the grime runs away to reveal the scars underneath. For a long moment, Caleb considers the silvery lines criss-crossing his skin. Impossible, not to think of sitting in front of Ikithon, biting back a whimper as his master slides a shard of residuum into the cut in his skin, and Caleb’s stomach churns so forcefully he nearly gags.

But another memory surfaces – Fjord, kneeling over Caleb, gently holding his arm as he kisses along the scars. If Caleb had known, then, that was the last time he would ever see Fjord –

“Oy!” shouts the first Volstrucker, back by the car. “Pierova! We’re leaving!”

Pierova scoffs under her breath. “Come on,” she says, and tugs on Caleb’s chain.

The water in the stream looks clear enough, and Caleb dips his hands in again, bring water up to his lips. For a second, motion under the water catches his eye, and he freezes, sure he saw a face looking back up at him. But the only thing there is the rocks. “Done?” says Pierova.

“Ja.” Clearing his throat, Caleb stands and looks her in the eye, hoping to impress her with his humanity one more time before the bindings go back on.

Whether it works or not, it doesn’t show on her face. “Then let’s go.”

\--

They arrive at Rexxentrum in the dead of night. Caleb sits on the floor of the wagon, his back against the wall, and tries desperately to think of some escape, some way to get out of here that doesn’t end with him incapacitated at the feet of the three Volstrucker, or worse. The drugs in his system and the lead chilling his blood make it hard. The panicked circling of his thoughts makes it worse. _I am going to die, I am going to be unmade, Ikithon is going to pull me apart into a thousand screaming pieces and smear my guts across the floor…_

He wishes desperately yet again for Frumpkin, for the small comfort of another living breathing being with him and the soothing rumble of Frumpkin’s purr. And then, even more wistfully, he pictures Fjord swooping in on a fiery black steed, his crew behind him as he springs Caleb from the broken wagon and rides off with him into the night.

An absurd fantasy, and a pitiful one, but Caleb clings to it all the same.

The carriage jerks to a halt, throwing Caleb against the wall and banging his head. Grunting from the pain, he sits back up, wrists and ankles straining against their cuffs. Boots clatter on the stones outside and the door opens, moonlight framing the Volstrucker from behind.

This is the first one who found Caleb, whom the others address as _Bransomer_ and once, in a moment of pique, as _Hilde_. “Let’s go,” she says, from behind her mask.

Caleb eyes her over his muzzle and does nothing.

The lighting is too poor for her expression to be visible. “You can walk out, or you can be dragged out,” she snaps. Pierova walks up beside her, and Bransomer barks at her, “Get the horses unhitched.”

“And stay behind while you get all the credit for bringing him to Trent? Not fucking likely,” Pierova retorts.

“The Archmage,” corrects the bald Volstrucker from behind Valdanya, and then, in the longest speech Caleb’s heard from him yet, “We’re on his land now. He’s listening.”

His land. Then they’re on Ikithon’s estate by the Sanatorium. The blood drains from Caleb’s face, and he swallows hard, breath picking up behind the muzzle. Dimly beyond the white noise in his ears, he hears Bransomer say, “Get out of the wagon, Ermendrud.”

 _It’s Widogast,_ Caleb growls.

The bald Volstrucker leans in and grabs the chain linking Caleb’s ankles, yanking him forward. Caleb writhes and struggles but has no purchase to keep the Volstrucker from dragging him out of the wagon and onto the pavement. Winded, Caleb tries to kick the Volstrucker, his chains rattling, but can’t reach him. The stars above look down, cold and unreachable.

“Get him up,” orders Bransomer. Nervous energy hangs about her like an impending lightning strike. “Let’s go.”

By the silhouette of the gabled buildings overlooking the courtyard, Caleb identifies the Sanatorium. Heart hammering, Caleb glares at Bransomer and doesn’t move. “Now!” she barks, and when Caleb still doesn’t move, she kicks him in the ribs.

Groaning, Caleb curls around himself, pain radiating up his side. Before Caleb can catch his breath, the bald Volstrucker bends down and grabs Caleb’s arm, hoisting him up. Caleb deliberately goes limp, and the Volstrucker grunts at his sudden dead weight.

“Come on.” Pierova strides over and grabs Caleb’s other arm, holding him up. Looking up at her as pleadingly as he can muster, Caleb begs her to see him, to light some spark of humanity –

Her expression stays hard and blank as slate. She and the bald Volstrucker stride forward, pulling Caleb with them, Bransomer in front. As they round the wagon, the Sanatorium looms over them, and Caleb recognizes they are not in the main courtyard that leads to the front entrance, but one of the smaller yards at the back of the building, designed for inconspicuously depositing troublesome individuals. His feet dragging over the cobblestones, Caleb glances up at the buildings. Only a few, solitary lamps are on in scattered windows, each one like an eye pointed right at him.

Caleb is having a harder and harder time breathing, the inside of the muzzle swampy with condensation, his chest as tight as if lead was wrapped around it as well. His heart hammers so hard he can hear it. Probably they will take him inside and throw him in a cell, he thinks, trying to predict the future to prepare himself as they reach a door in the back wall. Maybe clean him up. Present him to Ikithon in the morning –

The door opens, and Trent Ikithon stands on the threshold, yellow wizard lights hanging around his head.

Anger and revulsion surge up in Caleb so strongly he can barely see, his breath choking him. Hanging by the arms from the two Volstruckers’ grip, he glares up at Ikithon through his matted hair. _Go fuck yourself_ , he wants to say.

Ikithon’s reptilian eyes travel over Caleb, cataloguing each detail. “Are you sure that’s him?”

“Yes,” says Bransomer immediately. “He’s not under any enchantment or illusion.”

Raising an eyebrow, Ikithon lifts a hand and gestures, tracing glowing symbols through the air that flare and then fade. “Very well,” he says. “Get him cleaned up,” and he turns and walks away.

It’s not until the Volstrucker drag Caleb inside the building, in the opposite direction of where Trent went, that he realizes he’s shaking.

They lock Caleb in a windowless, cloth-padded room of the east wing of the Sanatorium, furnished with only a mattress and a wooden bucket with no handle. The muzzle and collar and chains come off, replaced by a lead-and-leather cord that loops between Caleb’s wrist and neck, tightening painfully around his throat if he moves his hands more than half a foot away from his body. From the unnatural chill of the room, Caleb suspects thin sheets of lead line the walls behind the padding as well. The only light is a glowing white orb set in the ceiling.

If this was the cell they put him in sixteen years ago, Caleb doesn’t recognize it.

About ten minutes later, the hatch in the door opens and a pitcher of water and plate of bread and cheese are set down inside the room. Caleb sits, eyeing them warily for a long while. Eventually, his burning hunger and thirst get the better of him, and Caleb eats and drinks enough to ease the discomfort, if not remove it entirely.

The speed with which sleep takes him confirms Caleb’s suspicion that this meal was drugged as well.

\--

The sound of the door opening breaks Caleb out of a deep but not particularly restful sleep. He pries himself up off his mattress, eyeing Bransomer in the doorway. Two large men in the blue-and-gray tunics of Sanatorium flank her. For the first time, she isn’t wearing a mask; she has a long jaw, her lips thin and chin angled. “Get up,” she says.

Resistance will get Caleb nowhere, he knows. Both orderlies are much bigger than he is. But he stays put anyway.

Bransomer rolls her eyes. “Being difficult will only make things worse for yourself.”

“I don’t see how they could get much worse,” rasps Caleb.

“I will be more than happy to show you,” Bransomer growls. There is a pinched, sallow look to her cheeks, and dark circles under her eyes. “Now move.”

Caleb glares at her and sets his shoulders stubbornly.

The orderlies are firm but not particularly rough with Caleb, handling him with the same sort of amused but unyielding patience one would use on a wayward steer. “You really should listen to the Volstrucker,” says the one holding Caleb’s feet as they proceed down the hallway. “It’ll go a lot easier for you if you don’t struggle.”

Muzzled again, all Caleb can do is glare daggers at his solid back and wish for a total building collapse.

The other orderly, the one holding Caleb under the arms, says, “He’ll learn. Wasn’t he one of Archmage Ikithon’s top students, way back when?”

“Yes,” snaps Bransomer, striding ahead of them. She has one hand raised, gesture identical to the silver mage hand that holds the cord tight at Caleb’s throat. Not enough to choke yet, just a warning. “One of his most promising successes, or so I have been told.”

 _And his greatest failure,_ thinks Caleb.

They carry Caleb into a room tiled in white, with a curtain partitioning it in two, and set him on the floor. A wooden table and stool stand to one side, the table bearing what looks like a metal basin, shaving implements, and a pile of clothes. Sweeping aside the curtain, Bransomer reveals a large metal tub filled with water. “Go on,” she says, jerking her head towards it.

Sitting up slowly, Caleb looks from the tub, to Bransomer, to the orderlies, and back again. The back of his neck crawls. _No._

Bransomer crouches in front of him, dark brown eyes intent on his face. “I have a thought,” she says. “If you could still use magic, I wouldn’t have found you delirious in a jail cell with your feet torn apart.”

Will it make things better for Caleb, if they know he’s no longer a threat, or worse, if Bransomer and Ikithon believe he’s lost his usefulness? Caleb inclines his head slightly, breath condensing on the inside of the muzzle.

A brief flicker of annoyance thins Bransomer’s lips. “Well, that’s not my fault,” she mutters, and unclasps Caleb’s mask. He can’t help sucking in fresh air, sweat cooling on his skin. “He wants to see you. Clean yourself up.” She stands again, pointing at the tub.

Caleb stinks of salt and sweat and pus and blood, his hair is matted and his skin crusty, and he is very, very aware of the two orderlies standing behind him. “If Ikithon wants to see me, he can see me like this,” Caleb rasps.

Sighing, Bransomer glances meaningfully at the orderlies. “No,” snaps Caleb, scrambling backwards, “absolutely not –”

He backs right into the shins of one of the orderlies, and a large hand comes down on his shoulder. “Come on now, you’ll feel a lot better once you’ve cleaned up,” says the orderly, patting him, and Caleb flinches away, scrambling towards the door –

“Stop,” says Bransomer, and the air around Caleb flexes with magic as he freezes, muscles obeying a mind other than his own.

 _No,_ he screams, trying to will himself free, will a fireball, _anything_ , but he _can’t_ , and one of the orderlies pushes Caleb down and onto his back. Able to move again, Caleb rams his foot into the orderly’s gut, and the large man grunts but doesn’t fall. The other orderly, a black-haired human, leans over Caleb and pins his arms to the floor at his sides, the leather cord yanking Caleb’s wrists to his chest.

Growling, Caleb tries to pull free, but the orderly’s grip is like bear traps. The first orderly, the one with a ginger beard, grabs Caleb’s ankles and smiles reassuringly at him. “Now, now, it’s all right,” he says. “No need to get all worked up –”

Caleb spits in his face.

The cord around Caleb’s neck tightens painfully as a silvery detached hand yanks on it. “Behave yourself,” snaps Bransomer.

Too occupied with choking and clawing at the cord, Caleb doesn’t register until too late the bearded orderly yanking his pants and smallclothes down. Hot prickling shame floods Caleb, and he curls his legs in, the pressure on his windpipe barely easing. With brutal efficiency, the black-haired orderly sits Caleb up and forces his shirt over his head. The dirty fabric bunches around the cord connecting Caleb’s wrists and neck, trapping him.

Each pulse of Caleb’s blood throbs in his ears, his skin crawling and his stomach sick. “Hold still,” orders Bransomer, and cuts the shirt off of Caleb with a short-bladed knife.

 _Fight!_ roars a voice in Caleb’s head. _You can’t let them do this to you, Cay, goddammit –_

Lunging forward, Caleb grabs the knife from Bransomer. Or at least, he wraps his fingers around the hilt before the cord chokes him and Bransomer yanks it back, her elbow snapping up under Caleb’s chin. He grunts, teeth smashing together painfully and head ringing as he falls back against the black-haired orderly. “Come on, now,” says the orderly, and two bearish arms wrap around Caleb. “Up you get.”

“Mngh,” chokes out Caleb, writhing furiously as the orderlies pick him up and drop him into the tub. Cold water surges over Caleb and he gasps, sitting back up with sodden hair covering his eyes. Before he has a chance to breathe, a large handful of slimy soap hits him on the back and an orderly starts vigorously scrubbing. Caleb shudders, shoulders hunching protectively around his ears.

 _Do something!_ orders the voice in his head, but Caleb can barely hear it past the ringing in his ears. His spine crawls, each large pad of the orderly’s fingers pressed against his skin, static buzzing in his fingers. Each breath pulls his chest tighter and tighter until he can’t move, his joints locked in place. Everything else feels vague and far away.

If he holds still, maybe it’ll all be over soon.

“See now,” says the bearded orderly, voice fuzzy and distant as the other man lifts Caleb’s leg to scrub under his thigh. “Isn’t that better now?”

Shivering, Caleb stares at nothing.

Bransomer watches coolly from against the wall, her arms folded across her chest. “Get his hair,” she says.

“Ma’am?” The bearded orderly pauses as he scrubs down Caleb’s chest. “We’ll wash it.”

With a meaningful glance over at the table, Bransomer says, “Don’t bother.”

 _Don’t bother_ , Caleb’s thoughts echo dully. Well, if they are going to cut his head off, at least he won’t have to wait long –

A hand closes in Caleb’s hair, tilting his head back. At the first soft _snick-snick_ of scissors, the bottom drops out of Caleb’s stomach in horror. “No,” he whispers, Bransomer watching him from under half-lidded eyes. “Please…”

Her chin lifts slightly. “You’ll feel a lot better when this is all off, mate,” says the bearded orderly, as a chunk of Caleb’s hair falls into the water around him. Caleb can feel the tug on his hair, the scissors cutting close to his scalp. “Much easier to keep clean!”

Closing his eyes, Caleb breathes through his nose and tries very, very hard not to throw up. His fingers are numb.

When they finish cutting his hair, another bucket of water is dumped over Caleb, rinsing away soap suds and cut hairs. The orderlies pick Caleb up out of the bathtub and set him down on the floor, Caleb stumbling as he finds his feet. Cold, dripping, and miserable in the middle of the room, Caleb accepts the thin towel that the bearded orderly hands to him. He dries himself off as best he can with his hands still bound before wrapping the towel around his waist.

With a hand on his shoulder, the bearded orderly steers Caleb towards the stool by the table. Caleb doesn’t bother resisting, just lets himself be seated as the other orderly works up a soap lather on a brush. The straight razor on the table gleams dully. “Hold still,” says Bransomer dryly from behind Caleb. “Wouldn’t want someone’s hand to slip.”

 _No_ , thinks Caleb. _No, I wouldn’t._ It would never be enough damage to kill him cleanly or outright.

Does he want to die?

Caleb retreats into his mind to consider this as the black-haired orderly works soap over his face, ignoring how close the man is to him, the sound of his breath, the rasp of his fingers on Caleb’s beard. Maybe he does. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to see Ikithon again. Would maybe rather face death.

But if, instead, he could escape –

The blade touches his skin, scraping hair away, and Caleb closes his eyes. He escaped from Trent once before. He can do it again. And if he does, then maybe – just maybe – he can find Fjord again. If Fjord is even alive.

He’d told Fjord about Ikithon, what seems like ages ago, on the deck of the _Tide’s Breath_ in the moonlight. And when Fjord had asked him what he was trying to do, Caleb had said, _Survive._

That’s all he needs to do know, as the razor slides over his jaw. The dull edge nicks him, and Caleb stiffens.

Survive.

\--

Dressed in the uniform of a Soltryce Academy student – white shirt, red pants, and red jacket clasped in gold – Caleb marches down the hallway flanked by Bransomer and Pierova, his hands bound tightly in front of him and a lead collar on his neck. Their footsteps don’t echo off the polished wood floors; instead, their boots sink into the plush ornamental carpet. Oil paintings of old masters line the paneled walls, their eyes following Caleb as he walks between the two Volstrucker. Washed and shorn, shaven clean, Caleb feels uncomfortably naked, the back of his neck prickling.

Two broad pine doors stand at the end of the hallway, handles golden and ornate. The corridor seems to telescope in towards them as Caleb gets closer, his breath fast and shaky, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

He doesn’t realize he stopped walking until Pierova and Bransomer’s fingers dig into his arms, dragging him forward. Neither of them wear masks, but their expressions are so set and grim they might as well be. “Come on,” says Pierova, and then turns to talk past him to Bransomer. “On neplokho pribralsya, da? Posle togo, kak vy srezhele s yego golovy krysinoye gnezdo.”

Caleb doesn’t understand the words but recognizes it as the native language of the Marrow Valley. Responding in the same tongue but much less fluently, Bransomer says, “Ikithon dovolen krasivymi parnyami,” making Pierova laugh hollowly.

They reach the double doors. Bransomer hesitates a fraction of a section before stepping forward and knocking with one leather-gloved hand.

The door swings open of its own accord.

Right then and there, a hate so powerful Caleb can barely stand it surges up within him. How like Ikithon, to use such a stupid, showy trick for no reason other than convenience, to make himself look powerful, like such a great, wise, _mystical_ mage –

“Come in, Bren,” says Ikithon.

Bransomer gives Caleb a push into the room, and he stumbles forward. The doors shut behind him, leaving him alone in the room.

Alone with Trent Ikithon.

Ikithon sits behind a solid, intricately decorated desk of dark-stained wood, bookcases filled with leatherbound tomes lining the wall behind him. Several delicate instruments of gold and crystal sit on small tables, gently humming with arcane energy. The man himself looks older than Caleb remembers, the lines on his face more sunken, his hair wispier and whiter. But his pale blue eyes are as cold and piercing as ever. “Come,” he says gently. “Step forward.”

Swallowing hard, Caleb approaches slowly, the stiff fabric of his uniform rustling, the carpet soft under his bare feet. Ikithon’s face seems to hover in front of him, the long, thin nose, the clever lips, the short whiskers and beard, the canny glitter in the eyes. “Please,” says Ikithon, gesturing with one white hand. “Sit.”

Several chairs face the desk. Caleb lowers himself into the nearest one warily, feeling like a trap will spring itself around him the second he sits. His heart pounds like a galloping horse.

“So,” says Ikithon. “Bren. You have found your way back to us at last.”

Caleb clears his dry throat. “You kidnapped me,” he rasps.

Frowning, Ikithon tilts his head. “Rescued you,” he corrects. “From what Hilde tells me, you had been thrown in a jail cell, burning with infection. Is this not true?”

It’s not, Caleb wants to say, but it is true and Ikithon knows it. “Most rescue attempts don’t involve keeping someone bound and gagged for two weeks,” he says instead.

“Oh, Bren,” says Ikithon sadly. “I am sorry for that. But after the damage you caused last time you were here, can you really blame them?”

Caleb doesn’t remember damage. Well, other than killing an orderly, but he doesn’t think that’s what Ikithon’s referring to. Faint panic begins to buzz under his skin – what else has he done? Who else has he killed that he doesn’t remember?

 _He’s just trying to get inside your head,_ Caleb tells himself. _He’s lying. Don’t let it get to you._ He looks instead at the parchment on Ikithon’s desk, the plumed quills in their stands, the vials of shimmering ink, the slim silver letter opener.

“Bren,” says Ikithon. Softly, paternally. “Look at me.”

The letter opener is fascinating, the way the light shines on the intricate whorls and spirals of the handle.

“What _happened_ to you?”

Slowly, Caleb glares up at Ikithon. “My name is Caleb Widogast,” he says hoarsely. 

Ikithon pauses just a moment before smiling, hands spread as if to say, _Of course, how clumsy of me, just a little mistake._ “You were gone for a very long time,” he says. “I am glad to have you back with us, safe and sound.”

His eyes are like a snake’s, cold and flat, and he smiles at Caleb with a superiority that makes Caleb’s blood run cold with anger. _You bastard,_ he thinks, so vehemently Ikithon can probably read the thought in his eyes. _I wish I could rip you to shreds_ –

The corner of Ikithon’s mouth curls up further. “Now that you are back with us, I hope you will resume your tutelage,” he says. “There is still so much for you to learn –”

Grabbing the silver letter opener, Caleb lunges for Ikithon’s throat.

\--

Suspended from under the arms by chains from the ceiling, the lead muzzle back on and collar heavy around his neck, Caleb hangs with his bent legs dragging across the floor and thinks about burning Trent Ikithon, slowly, from the toes all the way up to his soulless eyes. At least he got one good stab in before the wards in Ikithon’s office kicked in, freezing him in place. Though it wasn’t lethal and surely already healed by now.

Ignoring the dull burn in his shoulders and neck, Caleb drifts. In this windowless, lightless room, he can pretend Ikithon doesn’t exist, pretend the outside world doesn’t exist, pretend _he_ doesn’t exist…

The door opens and Caleb snaps his head up, chains clinking, squinting as light enters the room. At the sight of the woman in the doorway, his heart turns to ice. “Bren,” says Astrid.

The youthful freshness of her face has been carved away, her dark blond hair cropped short on the sides and falling jagged along one side of her face. She wears a plain black version of the Volstrucker uniform, buttoned up tight at the throat and wrists, an odd protrusion on one side of her neck under the fabric. Her eyes are green.

They weren’t always green. Caleb remembers her eyes, a reddish-brown the color of mahogany in the sunlight. But they’re green now, unnaturally vivid. And her skin is so pale he can see the blue veins snaking underneath, and the lavender shadows under her eyes.

Even if Caleb could speak, he wouldn’t know what to say. But his breathing grows harsher behind the muzzle.

Astrid regards him for a long, long time, hard expression unchanging. “Eodwulf is dead,” she says at last.

It hurts more than Caleb expected, a sudden strike through his heart. If any of them could get away, it should have been Eodwulf. He jerks in the chains, eyes burning with tears.

“Killed himself,” Astrid continues, in the same flat, merciless voice. “He couldn’t take what he’d become. I was Ikithon’s sole success.”

I’m so sorry, Caleb wants to say, even as cold fear coils around him. Fear of Astrid, fear for her, fear for himself.

Astrid cocks her head minutely, and Caleb realizes she hasn’t fidgeted, or shifted her weight, or even blinked since she opened the door. “Ikithon said I could torture or seduce you, whichever I preferred,” she says. “Which would you want?”

He's not so sure they’d be any different. Caleb struggles fruitlessly in his bonds, his wordless protest stifled by the muzzle. Something flickers in Astrid’s strange green eyes, though Caleb can't tell what. “You should not fight this,” she says softly, and reaches out to touch Caleb’s cheek. Her light touch burns, chemical. “It will go much easier for you. Bren.”

 _My name is Caleb_ , he snarls, jerking his head back as far as the chains allow.

She watches him for a moment longer, unreadable. Then, without a word, Astrid turns and leaves, the door shutting heavy behind her.

Groaning, Caleb slumps in his bonds, heart aching. For Eodwulf, for Astrid, for himself. He’d hoped, before, in fleeting moments, that they’d found freedom too, that they’d escaped like he had.

But in the end, Ikithon claimed them all.


	10. Act II, Scene 3

“Now, now, Bren,” chides Archmage Ikithon. “Compose yourself. You are sixteen? Too old for crying.”

“Yes, sir.” Blinking back tears, Bren takes a deep breath, steeling himself as the mithril scalpel slides across his left forearm. A red line of hurt follows after it, blood welling from the split in his skin.

Archmage Ikithon bends over Bren’s forearm on his desk, spectacles perched on his nose as he eases a pair of delicate forceps into the cut, lifting the skin. Bren stifles a gasp, his other hand clenching into a fist at the pain. With a second pair of tweezers, Archmage Ikithon lifts a shard of residuum ground thin and to an impossibly fine edge, the glassy green material reflecting the amber-yellow lights of his study. “Hold still,” murmurs Archmage Ikithon, and slowly works the residuum under Bren’s skin.

Bren chokes back a cry, biting his lip as the crystal eases in further, pain radiating up his arm. The _wrongness_ of it, of this foreign body pushing itself into him, makes his stomach roil with nausea and cold sweat stand on his skin. Shaking, his nails digging into palm, Bren breathes in his nose and repeats to himself that he can handle it, he’s strong enough, he can do this…

The last bit of green slips under Bren’s skin, only a slight protrusion marking its presence alongside the two others Archmage Ikithon inserted moments ago. Picking up a small crystal jar of pearly salve, Archmage Ikithon spreads a thin line of it across the cut in Bren’s arm, which heals instantly. Bren exhales shakily, the pain lessening but not fading completely. “Good, Bren,” says Archmage Ikithon, and pats him on the hand. “Very good. You can go now.”

“Yes, sir.” Bren rises slowly, pulling his sleeve down over his arm. He can _feel_ the residuum under his skin, bright pricks of pain along the edges and again that intrusion, that wrongness, of something inside his flesh. Taking a deep breath, he blinks back any remaining tears and walks out of Archmage Ikithon’s study.

Astrid stands on the other side of the door, and as she looks him over, a tiny frown of concern pulls her eyebrows together. It’s okay, Bren wants to say, but can’t quite make the words. He nods instead.

“Astrid,” says Archmage Ikithon from inside the study. “Come in, please. And shut the door.” With one last glance at Bren, she obeys, the door shutting behind her.

Alone in the hallway, Bren slumps against the wall and closes his eyes, exhaling shakily. He doesn’t want to move his left arm, afraid of the residuum inside stabbing him if he does. “I can do this,” he mutters to himself. “Ich kann das.”

He hadn’t meant to speak in Zemnian, and glances around guiltily in case someone heard him. But the hallway is empty, typical for this time of night.

Bren should be returning to the dormitories, but he decides to stay and wait for Astrid, eventually sinking down to sit next to the door. His arm itches, and is he imagining it, or does the residuum inside pulse faintly? Maybe it’s just the rhythm of his blood. Probably that. He pushes up his sleeve to inspect his arm, and the sight of those raised shapes under his skin makes his head spin. Exhaling heavily, Bren tips his head back against the wood-paneled wall and stares up at the ceiling, finely-carved beams arching overhead.

Astrid seems to be in there a long time, longer than Bren was, although that had felt like an eternity. No sound comes from behind the doors, although Bren is fairly sure they’re enchanted, to keep anyone from listening in. No matter, Bren thinks, despite the uneasy pit in his stomach. He’ll sit out here all night if he has to.

But she comes out eventually, looking pale and wan. Bren jumps to his feet, wondering if he should say something, but Astrid just meets his gaze before turning and walking down the hallway, back towards their dorms. And as Bren walks alongside her, he knows: there is nothing left to say.

\--

Caleb opens his eyes with a gasp, chains clinking around him, the darkness complete. Strung up the way he is, he hasn’t managed to sleep in more than fitful bursts. The dreadful gnawing hunger doesn’t help either. In fact, it’s hard to think about anything except how hungry he is.

Twice a day, for three days, a masked Volstrucker has opened the door of his cell and unbuckled his muzzle just long enough to force water down his mouth. But nothing more than that. No food.

The door creaks open and Caleb winces, light stabbing him in the eyes. He can just make out the figure of Bransomer standing in the doorway, her eyes narrowed. “You smell terrible,” she says.

 _And whose fault is that?_ Caleb glares back at her.

Another orderly comes up behind Bransomer, not one of the two who first handled Caleb, but nearly as big and burly. “Come on,” says Bransomer. “You’re seeing the archmage again.”

Caleb briefly considers protesting as they lead him to a bathing chamber, but he’s so hungry his hands shake. They’d probably just shove him on the floor and dump water on him anyway. When Bransomer points him towards the tub and orders him to undress, Caleb obeys.

He bathes and dresses quickly, quietly relieved to be wearing clean clothes and not smell of piss anymore. To Caleb’s complete lack of surprise, he isn’t allowed to shave himself. He sits still as the orderly scrapes the sharp metal over his jaw and throat, highly aware of Bransomer standing behind him, the air around her static with the energy of a spell ready to be cast.

Even lightheaded from hunger, Caleb pays attention to the turns they take through the hallways of the Sanitorium, left, right, pass three doors, up the stairs, right again, until they arrive at Ikithon’s office again. Once more, the door opens on its own, and Bransomer unhooks the chain from Caleb’s lead collar and pushes him through.

This time Ikithon sits at a little table by one of the high arched windows on the east wall, sunlight streaming through the windows. The table itself is set with fine porcelain and silver, although the plates are empty. “Bren,” says Ikithon pleasantly. “Please, sit.” He gestures to the chair opposite the table from him.

Stomach growling, Caleb crosses over slowly and sits in the chair. Ikithon’s throat is unbandaged and unmarked, as if Caleb never struck him, and he smiles at Caleb. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Will you join me for breakfast?”

Caleb swallows hard, staring at the empty plates and wondering if this is some sort of trick. “Sure,” he says hoarsely.

Still smiling, Ikithon taps a silver platter on a smaller table beside him, glyphs inscribed around its edge. With a faint puff of arcane essence, soft golden-brown rolls, sliced ham, a wedge of creamy cheese, and a half-dozen hardboiled eggs, sliced in half to reveal their golden centers, appear on the platter. Two small dishes of butter and jam appear alongside them, as well as a steaming teapot. Saliva pools in Caleb’s mouth, the scent of the warm bread and meat filling his nostrils, and his fingers twitch.

“Now,” says Ikithon briskly, picking up a roll. His long skinny fingers sink into the soft bread, tearing it in two. “Bren. Please tell me as to how you found yourself in a jail cell in Nicodranus.”

 _Don’t tell him anything,_ growls Fjord in Caleb’s head. _He’s tryin’ to manipulate you. Don’t let him._

“I…” Caleb stares at the platter of food. It’s hard to think about anything else. If he reaches out for a piece of bread, will Ikithon punish him?

This is ridiculous, he tells himself. You are not a child anymore. Take the food.

“Bren?” says Ikithon.

“It’s Caleb,” mutters Caleb, and leans over to take a roll.

The platter shifts minutely away from Caleb’s fingers, and he freezes. “Now, my apologies,” says Ikithon. “But I am an old man, and set in my knowledge. You will always be Bren to me.” Picking up another roll, he holds it out to Caleb. “Bren?”

Swallowing hard, Caleb nods and reaches for it. But Ikithon doesn’t relinquish the bread to him, not yet. “What is your name?” he says.

Oh no, thinks Caleb. This is how it starts.

Ikithon’s eyes fix on his, the color of ancient glaciers. Caleb swallows hard, throat dry. How bad can it be, if he just tells Ikithon what he wants to hear? Just so he can eat.

“Your name?” prompts Ikithon again.

“Bren,” rasps Caleb. “Bren Ermendrud.”

Smiling, Ikithon hands Caleb the bread. Resisting the urge to swallow the entire roll whole, Caleb tears off a piece of it and puts it in his mouth. The fluffy white bread practically vanishes, and Caleb bites off another chunk.

“So,” says Ikithon briskly, buttering his roll. “ _Bren._ How did you come to Nicodranus?”

Caleb swallows the last of his bread. “I walked.”

“Walked from where?” Ikithon uses a small, two-pronged fork to spear a slice of ham and put it on a plate. “Another town?”

 _Lie to him,_ says Fjord.

“Ah – yes,” says Caleb, distracted by the plate Ikithon holds out towards him. Steam curls from the ham into the air, its edges caramelized brown and the pink meat glistening with fat. “From a village to the south –”

“Bren,” says Ikithon, disappointed, and leans back. The plate moves away with him. “I was your teacher for years, you think I can’t tell when you lie?”

Caleb freezes, staring at Ikithon, heartbeat speeding rapidly in panic. He can’t tell him the truth. But he’s so hungry. He can’t think.

Raising his eyebrows, Ikithon offers the plate of ham towards Caleb again.

“Why?” bursts out Caleb in frustration. “You have potions that can make me tell the truth, you have spells that can see into my thoughts. Why play these games with me? What is the _point?_ ”

Ikithon’s expression shifts, the friendly mask shifting to a more intent and calculating regard. “Because, Bren,” he says, leaning forwards, “my goal is not to find out what happened. My goal is for you to trust me.”

Flames, licking up the side of the house. Smoke filling Caleb’s nostrils. His parents screaming within. “I will never trust you,” he says hoarsely. “Never again.”

“You say that now.” Ikithon raises one finger knowingly. “And yet, you have already eaten the food I gave you, have you not?”

Caleb stares at the silver platter, throat tight with sudden fear. The lead collar sits heavy on his neck.

“But you know, don’t you, that I want you here alive. Otherwise, why go to all the trouble of having the Volstrucker bring you back? It would have been much simpler to slit your throat and leave you by the side of the road.”

“Maybe you wanted to do it yourself,” rasps Caleb. “You wanted to see the light leave my eyes.”

“Maybe.” Ikithon smirks slightly. “Tempting a thought as that is, though, I have other uses for you, my dear Bren.” He sets the plate of ham down on the table between them, and as he does, his fingers brush Caleb’s clenched fist for the briefest second. Caleb jerks his hand back like he’s been shocked, breath shortening. “For now, though, you must be hungry. Eat.” He gestures magnanimously at the food before them.

Despite his hunger, the thought of choking down more food while Ikithon watches and asks Caleb probing questions makes him feel sick to his stomach. “No,” says Caleb. “No. I will not.”

Ikithon’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Either you eat with me, or you don’t eat at all.”

“Would you rather I starve myself to death?” retorts Caleb. 

“Would you?”

If you’re dead, Caleb tells himself, you won’t be able to escape. You’ll never see Fjord again. If he’s alive.

Eyeing Ikithon like a snake about to strike, Caleb reaches forward and slowly takes the plate of ham. Ikithon’s lips curl up in a smile. “Good,” he says.

In for a penny, in for a pound. Caleb loads his plate up with more ham and rolls as well as several eggs, slicing off a large chunk of cheese for himself too. Ikithon watches calmly, now spreading ruby-red jam over the bread he buttered. “So,” he says. “Like I was asking. Where did you walk to Nicodranus from, Bren?”

Caleb puts an entire half-egg in his mouth and chews, buying time. “North.”

“North?” Ikithon raises an eyebrow.

Shoving bread and cheese into his mouth, Caleb glares stonily back at Ikithon.

Sighing, Ikithon gestures a couple of sigils, an arcane glow hovering around his fingers. “Hilde,” he says, “please retrieve Bren.”

Caleb grabs for another roll before they can take him away, but static energy sparks and snaps at his fingers, shocking him. Chest rising and falling, he stares at Ikithon, who calmly takes a bite of his buttered and jellied bread. A tiny glob of crimson jam falls from his lips, landing on the silver-white hairs of his beard. The scars on Caleb’s arms tingle.

“Come on.” Bransomer strides up behind Caleb and hooks the chain back on the collar. She yanks on the leash and Caleb snarls, falling out of the chair. Something snaps and he lunges at Bransomer, trying to tackle her to the ground. But she steps back and he hits the carpet, and then Bransomer’s weight bears down on him, her knee in his spine and her hand forcing his face into the plush wool. “Really?” she snaps. “Haven’t we been through this before?”

In Zemnian, Caleb says something very insulting about her mother.

Electricity surges through Caleb, his every nerve lighting up with bright humming pain and his muscles seize, wounded cries forced out between his clenched teeth –

“Hilde!” snaps Ikithon. “Enough.”

The pain ends. Gasping, Caleb lies with his nose pressed into the carpet, a tear rolling out of his eye as his muscles slowly unlock. Grabbing the neck of his tunic, Bransomer hauls Caleb to his feet and he stumbles into her, feet uncooperative. His stomach still growls, the amount he ate barely enough to satisfy him. “Take him back,” orders Ikithon with a wave of his hand, and takes another bite of bread.

Silently, Caleb limps after Bransomer, and she locks him up in the dark again.

\--

A pattern quickly emerges. In the morning, Bransomer and an orderly appear to take Caleb to bathe and dress, after which he’s lead to Ikithon’s office. There, he eats as much as he can while attempting to deflect Ikithon’s probing questions until Ikithon gets irritated and summons Bransomer to drag Caleb back to his cell. Once in the dark windowless room, Caleb stays there and sees no one, gets nothing but a bucket of water in the corner, until the next morning when Bransomer opens the door again. And so on, and so on.

He uses the time to go through his memories, starting with the morning and going backwards. He accounts for each moment, check against what he knows to be true, trying to look for any discrepancies or missing time. Caleb doesn’t know if it’s possible to tell if his memories have been altered. They felt real enough the first time.

Maybe none of it is real. Caleb remembers sitting at the table with Ikithon and eating breakfast, but is that really what happened? Caleb doesn’t know. He doesn’t _know._ And at nights the not-knowing spirals and spirals until he curls up on the floor and gasps and closes his eyes, unable to trust what’s in his own head.

He starts with what he knows for sure. He has ten fingers and ten toes, touching them to each other. He knows the names of his mother and father, Una and Leofric. He knows his own name, Caleb Widogast, the one he was not born with.

He knows about Frumpkin, left behind in the Feywild, and Caleb’s heart hurts for his poor little cat who must think himself abandoned. _I’ll get you back_ , he promises. _When I am free_.

And he knows things he’s sure Ikithon could never dream of to put in his head. He knows the salt taste of sea spray and the wind in his hair; he knows the hallucinogenic glimmer of blood fruit under a jungle altar.

He knows the rough brush of calloused sailor hands over his hair. He knows Fjord saying in a voice gentle and low and burred with sleep, _Easy, easy, Cay. It’s all right now. It’s over._

Caleb will not lose this, he vows to himself. He will not let Ikithon take it from him. No matter what.

On the fifth morning, as Caleb lies flat on his back on the cold stone floor of his cell, he counts down the minutes until when Bransomer will open the door. She comes at the same time every day, eight-thirty exactly. And he has nothing else to do here but sit, and wait, and think.

But eight-thirty comes and goes, or at least Caleb thinks it does. Has he counted right? He can’t tell. No sounds penetrate the walls around him, and he keeps track of time as best he can but maybe he’s starting to lose that sense. Maybe spending twenty-three hours a day in the dark is hurting his mind. Or maybe Bransomer isn’t coming at her usual time. Maybe she’s not coming today. Maybe she’s not coming at all. Maybe they’ve locked him in this room forever and it will be his tomb as he becomes nothing more than a dried-out corpse lying on the floor –

The door opens, light flooding in. Caleb can’t help gasping in relief, Bransomer’s shadow looming over him. She raises an eyebrow. “Let’s go.”

Breakfast this morning is soft cheese, sliced apples and berries, and rolls baked in the Kamordan style, layers of flaky pastry in a crescent shape. “So,” says Ikithon. “This ship you were on that wrecked. I presume it was not one of lawful intent.”

Caleb grunts assent, wolfing down pastry and cheese.

“Pirates?”

 _What else?_ Caleb thinks, swallowing.

Ikithon watches him appraisingly. “What did you do on this ship?” he asks softly. “Were you there freely?”

The question punches Caleb in the gut and he freezes. _Yes_ , he thinks achingly. _I was._

“You seem distressed,” remarks Ikithon.

Ikithon believing that Caleb was hurt by the pirates is more than Caleb can bear. “I wish I was back there,” Caleb says hoarsely. He talks so little, his voice is becoming rough with disuse. “With them.”

Raising one eyebrow, Ikithon says, “Interesting. They treated you well?”

Caleb knows what he’s implying. “Why wouldn’t they?” he snarls.

The question hangs in the air as Ikithon takes an exacting bite of an apple slice. “You were of great utility to them, I’m sure,” he says. “I imagine pirates have a lot of use for the kind of destruction you are able to achieve.”

If Caleb says no, he calls himself useless, which would delight Ikithon. But he cannot agree with him either. Caleb swallows down the bit of cheese sticking in his throat and reaches for the bowl of berries, not meeting Ikithon’s gaze.

With a slight gesture, Ikithon sends the bowl sliding away from Caleb’s reach. “Now, Bren,” he chides. “Are you going to be cooperative?”

Caleb glowers at him.

Sighing, Ikithon raises his hand and starts gesturing to summon Bransomer, but Caleb can’t go back to that dark cell, not yet – “Yes,” he bursts out. “Yes, I was.”

Ikithon pauses in casting the spell. “You were what?”

“Useful.” Caleb clears his throat, his hands shaking. “On the ship.”

Ikithon’s smile widens slowly, viperlike. “Were you?” he says. “Doing what?”

Numbly, Caleb stares down at his plate. “Intimidation,” he answers hollowly. “Destroying ships.” It sounds false, to say it like that, but that’s what he _did_ , wasn’t it? That’s why Fjord picked him up in the first place. That’s why he was kept on the _Tide’s Breath_ at all.

“Ah,” says Ikithon delicately. “And you liked that?”

“I…” What can Caleb say? That he enjoyed the rush of power when he stood at Fjord’s side and watched a ship go down? That he would give anything for the burn of magic in his veins again to keep himself safe? “I don’t know.”

“Not so different from what you would have been doing for me, no?”

Feeling sick, Caleb reaches for another roll, and this time Ikithon doesn’t stop him. He just watches as Caleb forces down more food. “Bren,” he says softly. “Why were you looking for their approval for these actions when you could have just come back to me?”

Dark heat burns like embers under Caleb’s skin. “It’s not the same.”

“Why not?”

“Because –” Caleb holds back a growl, Ikithon _knows_ this, he’s just asking to drive the knife in – “Because they didn’t lie to me.”

Ikithon raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure? Pirates are not generally known for their honesty.”

“Yes,” snarls Caleb.

“Really? No barked orders without explanation, no false promises of freedom –”

“ _No._ ”

“No hidden information? The captain kept no secrets, he was completely forthcoming –”

“He –” _He didn’t_ , Caleb wants to say, but Vandran had had secrets of his own for sure, and Caleb _thinks_ Fjord didn’t but he only spent a few months in his company, who was he to know – “No – I mean yes –”

“They let you act freely? They didn’t attempt to turn you in for bounty? There were no lead chains, no threats at swordpoint, no treachery –”

Memories of Avantika’s betrayal flood Caleb’s mind and his fists clench. “Not from my crew –”

“No?” Ikithon leans forward across the table, eyes burning with a strange intensity. “Are you that sure of it? Do you know what was discussed behind closed doors? How do you know your captain never considered turning you in –”

“Because –”

“How do you know, Bren?”

“He wouldn’t –”

“ _How do you know?”_

“Because Fjord wouldn’t do that to me!” bursts out Caleb.

The intensity of his cry echoes in the study, and Ikithon leans back slowly in his chair, eyeing Caleb thoughtfully. Cold dread sinks into Caleb and he swallows hard, his heart pounding as he realizes what he inadvertently revealed. “Fjord,” says Ikithon curiously. “Is he your captain?”

Caleb clamps his mouth shut.

“No? No more answers for today?”

Pointedly, Caleb looks out the window. The morning sun shines down on the asylum courtyard, a carriage rolling in through the gates.

“Very well.” Ikithon calls Bransomer back in. “Thank you, Bren, for finally being honest with me,” he says, in a soft voice that chills Caleb’s spine. “This is a big step.”

Caleb works hard to keep his face blank and his body still, not betraying the guilt and despair tearing at his throat. _I’m sorry, Fjord,_ he thinks. _I didn’t mean to._

Returned to his dark cell, Caleb lies on the floor and runs through his memories, in the same order as always. Idly, he wonders how long it will take him to go crazy. Two weeks? A month?

 _Maybe shorter_ , he thinks, his cheek pressed against the cold stone. _There are already voices in your head, Widogast. First sign of insanity._

_Now, it ain’t as bad as all that._

_I guess,_ sighs Caleb. _Keeps me company._

_It’s the least I can do._

Tears prick the inner corners of Caleb’s eyes, and his chest aches. _I miss you._

_I know, darlin’. I miss you too._

_Are you alive?_

Here Caleb has no answer for himself, and Fjord’s voice falls silent. Caleb curls up and wraps his arms around himself, itching slightly under the wool of his tunic and shivering. _You will survive_ , he tells himself. _You will see Fjord again._

But Caleb isn’t so sure.


	11. Act II, Scene 4

The cell door opens, jolting Caleb out of sleep. The Volstrucker who stands there is not Bransomer, but the bald human male who helped capture him. “Get up.”

Caleb squints blearily at him; he can’t have gotten more than three or four hours of sleep. “What?”

“Up!” the Volstrucker barks, grabbing Caleb by the arm and hauling him to his feet. Caleb stumbles, still groggy and dazed. This close the Volstrucker smells like burning metal, and the lines of his tattoos gleaming like iron filings.

A brilliant white light bursts into being and Caleb cries out, shielding his eyes. “What is your name?” demands the Volstrucker in a voice magically amplified to a painful decibel. He shakes Caleb, forcibly, before asking again. “What is your name?”

“I – ah – Widogast –” Caleb stammers.

The Volstrucker slams Caleb into the wall. “What is your name?”

“Bren!” gasps Caleb, his head ringing. “Bren, Bren.”

Abruptly, the Volstrucker releases Caleb, who staggers and falls to the floor. The light disappears and the Volstrucker leaves, slamming and locking the door shut behind him. Heart pounding and hands shaking with adrenaline, Caleb sits up and runs a hand through his cropped hair, afterimages still dancing in his vision. “What was that?” he mutters to himself, breathless. But he knows. He knows what that was.

Groaning, he curls back up in his corner of the cell. Sleep takes a long time coming.

\--

“You look tired, Bren,” remarks Ikithon, over breakfast.

Caleb glares up at him from under heavy eyelids. “I haven’t been sleeping well lately,” he rasps, acidic.

“Oh?” Ikithon raises a curious eyebrow, as if he isn’t fully aware that his Volstrucker has been waking Caleb up every night for the past week to interrogate him, bright light and loud voice included. “Are your quarters not comfortable?”

“I don’t have a bed,” growls Caleb, around a mouthful of eggs on toast. “I sleep on the floor.”

Ikithon scrapes butter over golden-brown bread. “That can be changed, you know.” He looks up at Caleb with a fragment of a smile. “Dependent on your good behavior.”

Typical. Caleb shovels more food in his mouth.

“Meanwhile, you still have not told me anything about this Captain Fjord of yours,” remarks Ikithon. “Such dedication. He must be someone very important to you.”

Caleb hides his face behind another bite of toast, but he can feel his ears warming, betraying him. “Oh?” says Ikithon with interest, and Caleb curses mentally, his ears growing redder. “Oh. Oh, _Bren._ ”

“Do not,” growls Caleb, shoulders shaking. “Do. Not.”

Raising his eyebrows, Ikithon says, “Do not what?”

“Don’t say his name.”

Ikithon looks at Caleb with an expression of such genuine sadness that it jars Caleb. “Now I understand,” he says gently. “Was it love?”

Breathing in through his nose, Caleb swallows hard, looking at anything except Ikithon. “Bren, Bren, Bren,” says Ikithon. “I am so sorry.”

“For what?” Caleb rasps.

“Why, for you. That you were used in that way.”

 _Used_. Fire ripples down Caleb’s spine. “You’re wrong,” he growls.

Ikithon shrugs delicately, pouring more tea in his cup. “Are you sure?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Why?”

Any answer Caleb gives will just be more ammunition for Ikithon. He keeps his mouth shut.

“Very well,” sighs Ikithon, and summons Bransomer. “Until tomorrow.”

\--

The nightly interruptions continue, the Volstrucker spending more time each night barking questions at Caleb. Questions about what his name is (Bren Ermendrud), what the name of his captain is (Fjord), the name of his ship ( _Tide’s Breath_ ). Other questions, some basic, some nonsensical. Always the blinding light and a cacophony of noises, except now sometimes those stay when the Volstrucker leaves.

Days start to blur into each other, sleep deprivation eating away at Caleb. He stumbles over his answers with Ikithon, slips up and reveals more than he should. At moments he falls into his old self, wearing his old clothes and his old haircut and his old name, and he has to claw his way back to Caleb.

He still checks his memories. He’s losing bits and pieces, he can tell. Or is he? He can’t tell. He doesn’t know. How many crew were on the _Tide’s Breath_? What color was the fruit under the jungle temple? Was Fjord’s scar on the right side of his mouth or the left?

“It is amazing, what we will do to convince ourselves of something, if it makes existence bearable,” remarks Ikithon, slicing a pear into neat wedges. The seasons must be turning, if pears are ripe now. “The maiden who tells herself that her lover still cares for her, even when he strikes her; the guildmaster who invests more and more of his gold in a struggling business. Or the kidnapped child who develops an affection for their captor.”

Caleb forces bread down his dry throat. “What are you saying?”

Ikithon covers Caleb’s hand with his, his skin dry and papery, and Caleb freezes. _Pull away_ , his instincts scream, but suddenly he’s Bren again, sitting at Ikithon’s desk as the archmage slices his skin open, and he can barely breathe, let alone move. “You are safe now,” says Ikithon. “You don’t have to lie to yourself about your relationship with this Captain Fjord anymore.”

“I’m not…” Caleb’s stomach turns. “I’m not lying.”

“Bren, Bren,” says Ikithon paternally, and pats his hand. “A pirate, and a half-orc at that. I think you know the truth.”

Caleb knows the truth, and it’s Fjord waking him from a nightmare and smoothing his hair back, holding Caleb as he tells him _It’s over now._ But the memory feels fuzzy, indistinct. “You don’t know anything,” he growls at Ikithon, glaring.

Sighing, Ikithon returns to slicing the pear. “I understand the instinct to be defensive,” he says. “But please consider the circumstances of your relationship. Were you free to leave? Was he not in a position of power over you?” His pale eyes meet Caleb’s. “Come back to reality, Bren. Admit the truth.”

Without thinking, Caleb lurches out of his chair and makes it halfway across the room before the sudden movement makes blood drain from his head and he has to stop, dizzy. “No,” he mutters, hanging onto a chair to stay upright.

Ikithon’s long robes whisper against the carpet as he crosses to stand in front of Caleb. “You can admit that you were used,” he says softly. “There is no shame in that. Only then can you begin to heal.”

Nausea roils up in Caleb and he makes a stifled sound. “Is that what you’re going to do?” he manages. “Change my memories of Fjord to ones of rape and abuse?”

Ikithon tilts his head in confusion, frowning at Caleb. “Change your memories?”

Ice spreads over Caleb’s skin. “You altered my memories,” he says hoarsely. “Last time. You made me believe my parents were traitors.”

Blankly, Ikithon stares at Caleb. “Bren, what are you talking about?”

“You…” Caleb stares at him, the bottom falling out of his stomach. “You didn’t… The memories of my parents, they _changed_ , they were innocent all along –”

“Bren, listen to me,” says Ikithon, taking his hands. Caleb shudders but can’t pull away. “This is exactly what I talked out. You are reframing your experiences to make them more acceptable –”

“No, no no no –” The words spill out of Caleb, cracks widening in his brain. “You’re lying -”

“Bren, I changed _nothing_ ,” says Ikithon, brow furrowed with compassion. “After the years you spent lost in your head, you rewrote your own memories because you couldn’t face the truth that your parents were traitors –”

“You are LYING!” roars Caleb, and shoves Ikithon away, stumbling back against the wall. Not until the tears roll down his cheeks does he realize he’s crying.

The smell of smoke hangs in the air. Kneeling, Ikithon touches the carpet where Caleb stood, and rubs gray ash between his thumb and finger. He smiles up at Caleb, and his eyes glitter dangerously. “Good,” he says softly. “Good, Bren.”

Caleb’s back hits the wall and he slides down the floor and by the time he realizes the panic attack hit he’s already hyperventilating. Scraping his hands over his scalp, Caleb draws his knees up to his chest and gasps for air. _He’s wrong_ , he thinks. _He’s wrong he’s wrong he’s wrong_ –

Grunting, Ikithon kneels creakily in front of Caleb. His bony fingers take hold of Caleb’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Accept the truth,” he says softly. “Only then can you begin to heal.”

Caleb gulps, the edges of his vision swimming. He can’t get enough air. His thoughts spiral frantically around each other, _wrong_ and _right_ and _true_ and _false_ and he smells smoke in the air and screaming, screaming in his head, screaming that doesn’t stop –

“Shh, shh,” says Ikithon, and touches Caleb on the forehead. A dampening influence washes over Caleb, numbing his brain, slowing his frantic breaths. “Calm yourself.”

Detachedly, Caleb realizes hairs came loose when he grabbed at his head, more than should have. He brushes his fingers, watching the ginger strands fall to the carpet. “Now,” says Ikithon. “Feeling better?”

He feels like his head is a thousand miles away from his body. Caleb nods mechanically.

Ikithon smiles. “Good. Then I’ll call Bransomer to take you back, and maybe we can do something about that bed.”

\--

 _You know he’s lyin’, right?_ says Fjord, as Caleb tosses and turns on his new mattress. The wood frame squeaks in the dark cell. _Just to mess with your head._

Caleb picks at his fingernails, kept trimmed short by the orderlies. _Maybe._

 _Maybe?_ Indignation explodes in Fjord’s voice. _Caleb, you can’t –_

_What if he’s right?_

A long moment of silence passes. _Cay,_ says Fjord sadly.

 _I don’t_ know _,_ growls Caleb, clutching at his head and curling in around himself. _I spent so long not knowing…_

 _You know about me_ , says Fjord.

Rough hands smoothing over Caleb’s hair. A gentle voice reassuring him in the night. But the memories feel faint and fuzzy around the edges. Stale. Pieces of another man’s life.

Dull terror flares in Caleb and he tries to throw himself into the memory like blowing on embers to reinvigorate a fire, reimagining the feel of Fjord’s fingers on his skin, the look in his eyes, the easy cadence of his voice. But the shape of Fjord’s eyes is wrong. And he can’t remember the words he said.

Caleb has another panic attack.

At some point he wears himself out and slips into uneasy unconsciousness, drifting between darkness and snippets of dreams. Sometimes he finds the deck of a ship, indistinct in the night except for the flames rising up around it. Far at the other end is a shape, a person standing there, but Caleb can never see them clearly enough to make out any details.

\--

Caleb steps into Ikithon’s study and for a moment becomes Bren Ermendrud again.

This scene exists in his memory a hundred times, Ikithon seated behind his desk in a long red robe, the study curtains drawn to keep out the night, magical lamps casting a golden glow over the richly-furnished room. He smiles when Caleb enters, beckoning him forward. “Bren. Please come here.”

Sick with foreboding, Caleb steps forward, expecting to see the metal tray containing tweezers and scalpel and shards of residuum on Ikithon’s desk. But it’s not there. “Sir?”

“How are you settling in?”

Caleb stares blankly at him, trying to reconcile the genial question with the reality of the past months. “I…”

Laughing ruefully, Ikithon says, “I know, I know. It’s been difficult. It hasn’t been easy for me either, Bren, watching you go through this. It hurts, to see you lost and in pain.” His voice drops, so soft Caleb can barely hear it. “Come here.”

Pretending not to hear him, Caleb stays put.

Ikithon’s eyes narrow. “I said, _come here_.”

Magic whispers underneath his words and before Caleb can think to resist, he steps around the desk to stand by Ikithon. Caleb shoves his hands in his pockets and clenches them into fists to stop the shaking. His throat constricts.

Leaning with one elbow on the desk, Ikithon regards Caleb thoughtfully. His skin looks like folded parchment in the lamplight, sagging under his eyes and pinching around his lips. “What is it you want, Bren?” he asks quietly.

He wants to be free. He wants to see Fjord again. “Nothing,” says Caleb hoarsely.

Ikithon raises his eyebrows. “Nothing?”

“Not that you can give me.”

“Bren.” Ikithon tsks softly and sadly. “I have already given you so much.”

Skin crawling, Caleb holds still.

“You were my best and brightest,” continues Ikithon. “I had so much hope for you. I would like to have that hope again.”

Each of Caleb’s shaky inhales sounds loud in his own ears. His heart pounds, _da-dum, da-dum, da-dum_.

“You used to trust me, once. What happened?”

Caleb has to clear his throat to unstick the words. “You lied to me.”

“Now, now, Bren,” chides Ikithon gently. “I told you. I didn’t. You reshaped your own thoughts.”

The urge to deny Ikithon, to scream at him, to fling his words back at his face, swells up in Caleb. But he can’t give it voice, his mouth filled with clay. He doesn’t know if he believes it. He doesn’t know what he believes.

Ikithon’s eyes glitter like a snake’s in the golden light. “You can trust me again, Bren,” he says softly, leaning forward. “Let go of the pain. Let go of the questions. Leave it to me.”

“I…” The walls spiral in around Caleb, dark and reaching forever. No way out. Smoke in the air and blood on his hands. “I don’t know.”

“Then don’t,” Ikithon whispers. “You belong to me, Bren. You always have. You always will. Fighting it will only cause you more pain.”

Eyes stinging, Caleb gasps. His head feels disconnected from his body. He can’t think beyond the horrible echo of _he’s right, he’s right, he’s right_.

Leaning forward, Ikithon loosens the belt of his robe. His tongue darts out over his thin lower lip. “Get on your knees.”

Caleb obeys.

\--

The sound of pounding at his cell door jolts Caleb out of a queasy half-slumber. “Open up!” roars an unfamiliar voice, deep and male. “Open the door!”

Freezing, Caleb stares at the door from his bed. Is this a rescue attempt? Or another torture of Ikithon’s? Someone grunts, and slams into the door, which shudders.

 _Do somethin’_ , says Fjord, but faint and fuzzy. Caleb shivers, staring at the door and watching the timbers warp slightly under another impact. Maybe they’ll kill me, he thinks stupidly. Then I’ll be free.

The door slams open and in burst three men, big and bulky, dressed in rough peasant clothing. Two are human, rough and bearded, but the third is a half-orc. Dark-haired. Skin vaguely green in the dim light. Caleb’s heart skips a beat, skips two, and then he makes out the scowling features of the half-orc and they are wholly unfamiliar. Not Fjord.

That’s all Caleb can process before one of the men lunges forward and grabs Caleb, tossing him to the floor. Caleb groans as he hits the stone floor, rolling onto his side. “You little bitch,” growls the half-orc, and kicks Caleb in the ribs. He yelps, pain stabbing into him. “Get up!”

Caleb barely manages to climb to his hands and knees before one of the humans strikes him back down to the floor. A massive hand closes around his throat and the half-orc drags Caleb to his feet, Caleb choking and clawing at him. This close, the feral rage gleams in the half-orc’s eyes, his breath warm and stinking, his fangs bared. “Worthless piece of slime,” he rumbles. “You ought to be beaten into a pulp.” He pushes Caleb up against the wall until Caleb’s feet leave the floor.

Gasping for air, Caleb scrabbles at the half-orc’s hand, trying fruitlessly to kick him. The half-orc pulls out a long, black wand, and clenches his fist around it. The tip lights up with crackling blue-white energy.

“No,” rasps Caleb. 

“Murderous scum,” says one of the humans, and spits on the floor. “I hear he burned his parents alive.”

“I hear he killed an innocent man at the Sanatorium,” says the other.

“I hear he gave himself over to some half-breed captain and let himself be used like a filthy whore,” growls the half-orc, and jabs the wand into Caleb’s side.

Pain rockets through Caleb’s body and he screams, raw agony pulsing in his veins. Just when Caleb’s vision starts to darken, the half-orc pulls the wand away and chuckles, Caleb hanging limp in his grasp. “You like that?”

Tears in his eyes, Caleb wheezes.

The half-orc shocks him again.

And again, and again, and again, until Caleb loses all sense of time, of anything beyond _how much it hurts_ , he wants to die, he wants to die, why won’t they let him die –

A flash of arcane light fills the cell and Caleb drops to the floor, vision blurry. A figure in red robes chants and another purple blaze strikes, the half-orc howling…

Caleb comes to lying on the floor on his side, his entire body aching and shivering uncontrollably. His vision swims, a tear rolling out of his eye and along his nose that he can’t stop. Someone is petting his hair and crooning his name, “Bren, Bren, Bren…”

It’s Ikithon.

Caleb’s stomach churns and he rolls over onto his forearms, heaving and gagging. Nothing comes up except bile.

“You knew the truth all along,” says Ikithon softly. “Why would he choose _you_? Broken and damaged as you are…”

 _No_ , Caleb wants to wail, but how can he protest when he had the same thought himself? He shakes, nose dripping.

“You were captured by a pirate,” says Ikithon. “He forced you to serve him. You were used. But you are safe with me now.”

Memories fracture and splinter, flaking like ash. Rough hands on his face. Pain in his side. His parents scream. Lead on his neck, lead on his wrists, and blackness and fire all around him.

Ikithon’s hand on his back, between his shoulder blades. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” gasps Bren. “Yes.”

Ikithon smiles. “Then it’s time to get to work.”


	12. Act II, Scene 5

“We’ve done quite a bit of work with residuum since you left us, Bren.” Ikithon takes the rectangular golden box from Astrid with a nod of thanks, setting it down on his desk. Eyes hooded, she draws back. “It truly has some remarkable properties.”

From his seat next to Ikithon, Bren watches warily as Ikithon unlocks the box with a tap and a muttered arcane word, and lifts the lid to reveal gleaming viridian shards of residuum carefully layered between soft fabric. They look the same as he remembers.

“It turns out,” says Ikithon, using a pair of padded tongs to pick up a large shard, “that when exposed first to extreme heat, then to water of a certain basicity, the residuum develops in quite unexpected ways.” He lays the residuum directly on the hot coals of the brazier on a bronze tripod beside him.

At first, nothing happens. Then, gradually, the color of the glass begins to warp and change, though the true shade is difficult to make out against the glowing embers. The edges of the shard thicken, the pointed edges squaring off. “Ah,” says Ikithon. “See? Observe.” And he uses a different set of tongs, without padding, to pick up the shard out of the fire.

It’s purple now, a shimmering, variegated violet. Carefully, Ikithon drops the crystal into a glass bowl full of water. As Bren watches in horrified fascination, spindly appendages begin to grow and twist out of the shard, like roots from a tree. Astrid’s emerald gaze is fixed on it as well.

After a few minutes, the roots seem to stop, and Ikithon uses the tongs to lift the crystal back out and lay it down on a white towel. Bren tries to picture forcing that under his skin, and the blood drains from his face. “Sir…”

“It looks intimidating, I know. But the process is actually much more organic though.” Ikithon waves to Astrid. “Come here, dear. Show Bren.”

Stepping forward, Astrid opens the collar of her black coat and pulls it aside, revealing a cluster of crystals growing out of the side of her neck.

Bren stares, blood turning cold. The longest in the bunch is a couple of inches, several smaller minerals breaking through her skin around it. Astrid’s veins show dark and twisted near the base of the growth, and a pale green glow pulses faintly under her skin. “Does it hurt?” Bren asks hoarsely.

“A little,” says Ikithon, but Bren waits for Astrid’s reaction. Her expression unchanging, she tilts her head, shrugs one shoulder. Pushing up her sleeve, she reveals another, smaller cluster emerging from her forearm.

Horrified, Bren can only stare at her, his heart aching. “The price of power,” says Astrid softly.

“We will start small with you, Bren,” says Ikithon, and produces another rooted crystal from the golden box. This one is much smaller, barely the length of a fingernail. “To make sure there are no… adverse reactions. Some of my other students have had trouble adjusting.” He stresses the last word delicately.

Bren swallows hard and clenches his fists to hide them shaking.

Picking up a scalpel, Ikithon smiles. “Ready, Bren?”

 _If I get residuum, I can cast spells again_ , thinks Caleb.

Slowly, Bren uncurls his arm and lays it flat on the desk, his pulse pounding hollowly.

“Ah ah, not this time,” says Ikithon. “Remove your jacket, please.”

Bren undoes the gold buttons with numb fingers and takes off the red jacket, leaving himself in the white linen shirt underneath. “Open your collar,” directs Ikithon.

Unbuttoning his shirt, Bren pulls his collar aside, baring his throat. Ikithon leans forward in his chair and tugs the shirt open further until Bren’s left collarbone is visible. At the same time, Astrid circles around to stand behind Bren, and her hands come down on his shoulders, drawing him back against the chair and holding him in place.

“Tilt your head back slightly.” With one hand, Ikithon spreads the skin above Bren’s collarbone taut, and with the other he draws the scalpel across, quick and deliberate. A quick sting of pain follows, and Bren hisses. Astrid’s hands on his shoulders tighten.

Setting the scalpel down, Ikithon presses a cloth to the cut for a few moments. Then, putting that aside, he picks up tweezers and the small purple crystal.

At the sight of it, both alien and organic with its little twisted roots, Bren’s survival instinct protests violently and Bren shudders, trying to flinch away. But Astrid’s grip holds him firmly in place. “No,” blurts out Bren, as Ikithon brings the crystal near. “I can’t –”

Pausing, Ikithon raises an eyebrow. _Are you done?_ his expression says.

Bren swallows hard and nods, steeling himself and ignoring the sweat beading on his temples. “Go ahead,” he says hoarsely.

With a small smile, Ikithon leans forward and pries up the skin from the cut. Bren gasps in pain and stiffens, Astrid clamping down on his shoulders. The crystal goes in not with the smooth slide of residuum shards, but like a stinging burr under his skin, the roots catching sharp on his flesh, and Bren shakes and shakes and bites his lip against the whimper in his throat.

“There.” Ikithon sets his tweezers down and picks up the little pot of healing salve, dabbing it around the crystal. The skin tingles hot-and-cold as heals partially, hot pain still throbbing around the base of the crystal. “Here.” Wiping his hands, he picks up a small mirror and holds it up in front of Bren.

The crystal looks so much smaller than it felt going in, the purple quartzite points barely poking out of his skin. Bren exhales shakily, wondering how long it will take before the crystal grows as large as Astrid’s.

Her hands are still on his shoulders, though no longer gripping so tight. The little of her face Bren can see in the mirror is impassive as a mask.

Bren himself looks both older and younger than he remembers, his jaw shaved clean and his hair short, but his cheeks hollow and the circles under his eyes heavy, his skin pale. Something in his eyes makes him turn away.

Sounding pleased with himself, Ikithon wipes his hands on a clean cloth and says, “Good, Bren, very good. Let’s come back in two days and see how this is taking to you.”

Astrid withdraws, and Bren slowly pulls his shirt back over the crystal, the wound aching and throbbing as he shifts his shoulder. He feels vaguely sick, his insides hollow with horror and a kind of slow, creeping shame. Ikithon’s eyes stay focused on him, flat and glittering like a viper’s, and his lips press together in anticipatory eagerness. “How does that sound?” he says.

Bren exhales, slowly unclenching his fingers. “Yes, sir.”

“Good, Bren.” Ikithon pats him on the knee. “Very good.”

\--

Bren lies awake at night, tracing the shape of the crystals under his skin. Three of them now, the one by his neck, and one under the skin of each arm, just below the crease of the elbow. Ikithon dug deeper with these two and they are fully covered, hard jagged lumps inside of him.

He no longer sleeps in a cell; he now has his own room, in the north wing where the Volstrucker and other high-ranking servants reside. It is a small, sparsely furnished room with bars over the windows, but there’s no lead in the walls and Bren has a washstand of his own, so he’s not complaining.

It gets lonely at night, though, and Bren finds himself wishing for the simple comfort of Frumpkin curled up next to him at night, purring. It would be nice, to have some physical contact that wasn’t… well.

That didn’t leave him cold and sick to his stomach.

Memories turn over in his head, rough hands passing through Bren’s hair, a firm grip holding him into the mattress. Whose hands? Bren should know, he should _know_ , but he can’t come up with a face. Is the memory one of fear or comfort? He doesn’t know.

When he sleeps, he dreams of the burning ship again.

The ship is clearer now, details of its deck and masts visible in the orange light from the flames surrounding it. Something about it seems familiar to Bren, although he can’t quite place what. And again, that figure at the other end of the ship, barely visible through the shadows and the smoke. It too seems familiar – something about the height, and the set of the shoulders.

 _Who’s there?_ Bren tries to say, but the words die in his throat. Too much smoke in the air. Embers on the wind.

Eventually the ship burns up, and Bren burns with it, passing into darkness.

\--

Ikithon’s long robes swish behind him on the stone floor as he paces, hands clasped behind his back. “Again!”

“I – can’t –” grits out Bren, staring at the stuffed dummy on the other end of the long room. Raising his hands in front of him, he tries yet again to will fire into existence, to send it hurtling at the dummy, but nothing happens. The places where the crystals were inserted smart and burn.

“Well, try harder!” snaps Ikithon, wheeling on him.

“I _am –_ ”

“Again!”

Growling, Bren thrusts his hands out in front of him, concentrating with all his might on _fire_. Nothing happens.

“You’re not trying hard enough,” says Ikithon icily.

Bren stares at the dummy, one trembling hand outstretched, sweat rolling down his temple. A vein in his forehead throbs. How does he _make_ himself do magic, how does he force what’s not there –

Pausing, Ikithon delicately interlaces his fingers, scorn etched on his face. “I’m disappointed, Bren,” he says. “I expected much more from you. You’ve had an entire week to get accustomed to the residuum –”

“I’m _trying –_ ”

“Maybe your education needs to be revisited, perhaps some time spent in _solitary contemplation –_ ”

“No!” Panic flares in Bren and he shoots his hand out, trying desperately to unlock that hidden part of himself. “I can do better –”

Spittle flies from Ikithon’s mouth as he snarls, “Then show me!”

Crying out, Bren focuses so hard a vein in his nose pops, his hand shaking –

“You are an embarrassment,” spits Ikithon. “I should have never given you a second chance.”

“No,” gasps Bren, blood trickling down his upper lip. “Please –”

With a swirl of robes, Ikithon slaps him across the face.

It doesn’t hurt very much, Ikithon is an old man, but humiliation bursts through Bren and he yells, fire exploding out of him. It roars through the stone-walled room before dissipating, leaving scorch marks on the walls and the dummy black and smoldering. Panting, Bren hunches and stares at his hands in front of him, magic tingling all through his palms and fingers.

With a shimmer, Ikithon’s arcane shield disappears, revealing him sprawled up on the floor, hair and robes disheveled, but a glitter in his eyes and a pleased smile on his lips. “Good, Bren,” he says softly. “Very good.”

Bren’s hands still shake, but now with potential. Taking a deep breath, he flings one hand back out towards the dummy, willing _fire._

A fireball streaks out of his hand and hits the dummy in a burst of orange heat and flames. The dummy burns like a torch, flames licking up it, and before he can breathe Bren whips his other hand around to send a second fireball. This one scatters the dummy into orange embers that rain and skid across the floor.

Grunting, Ikithon clambers to his feet, hanging onto the wall to get upright. “Let me see your arm,” he pants.

Rolling up his sleeve past the elbow, Bren holds his left arm out to Ikithon. The raised lump of the crystal is more pronounced, and just under the skin, Bren can make out a faint, pulsing glow.

Ikithon’s thin lips spread in a smile, his fingers pressing into the skin of Bren’s arm. “ _Excellent_.”

\--

The crystals on Bren’s neck have grown, but not up and out like Astrid’s. Instead, they have begun to spread outwards, ringing the seed crystal like scales. The color is changing, too, blooming from bright violet to warm orange in places. “It’s different for everyone, you see,” explains Ikithon, inspecting them through an enchanted monocle. “The residuum interacts with the host’s innate magic capabilities and takes on new characteristics, a symbiosis of power and…” He gestures, seeking the right word. “Personality,” he says, smiling up at Bren.

His shirt half off to bare his neck and shoulder, Bren nods, throat stuck. The many magic devices on Ikithon’s desk and tables gleam as they move, intricate interlocking parts ticking and rotating. Outside, the nighttime world is silent.

Laying aside the monocle, Ikithon leans forward in his seat again, pushing his thumb against the edge of the crystals. “Fascinating,” he murmurs. “You always do find new ways to surprise me, Bren.”

Bren can feel Ikithon’s breathing on his skin, smell the dry, musty scent of him. He swallows hard, looking away, heart hammering sickly.

Ikithon’s touch skims along Bren’s collarbone, papery fingers dipping onto the hollow of his throat. “What else do you have in store, I wonder?” Ikithon murmurs.

 _Don’t fucking touch me,_ snarls Caleb.

Closing his eyes, Bren pushes himself deep down, down, down. “Yes,” he says. “Sir.”

Ikithon smiles.

\--

The burning ship, in his dreams again. It’s so familiar. Bren _knows_ this ship? Why can’t he remember it? The flames rise up around him, crackling, mirrored in the oily water, and Bren wonders – did _I_ do this?

Across from him stands the mysterious figure, and as the flames flare higher, Bren can see his face. A half-orc, tall, lean, dark-haired. He gazes at Bren with bafflement and concern, and his face is so familiar Bren aches, but he doesn’t know who this half-orc is…

“Why did you do it?” says the half-orc, voice husky, expression pained.

Frowning, Bren looks down at the flames. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. Embers on the wind, screams in the night.

Why _did_ he do it?

The crystals in his arm and his neck burn and splinter, piercing the skin.

“Cay?” says the half-orc, fear seeping into his voice. “You’re bleedin’.”

So he is, blood running down his forearm and soaking into the arm of his coat. And that must be the warm trickles down his neck and cheek as well. But that’s not as important as what the half-orc called him, Cay, _Caleb_ , darlin’ –

“I…” says Caleb, and he gasps and looks up at Fjord, heart hammering. “Fjord, I don’t know what’s happening, help me, please, Fjord…”

But Fjord isn’t there anymore. “Fjord?” pleads Caleb, looking around desperately. “I need your help, I can’t get free, I can’t – I can’t remember…”

But only the flames and the smoke rise up into darkness around him.

\--

One moment, Bren, Pierova, and Ikithon are standing in Ikithon’s stone chamber with a glowing transportation circle etched into the floor, and then splinters of reality rush past them and the air punches out of Bren’s lungs and they stand in another richly-paneled room, atop a finely-inlaid floor of dark wood and delicate golden symbols that flare and slowly subside. A footman liveried in dark blue stands at attention at the door, ears ever so slightly pointed and swept back towards his skull. “Archmage Ikithon,” he says, and bows deeply and precisely. “Please, come this way.”

Bren falls in line with Pierova as she follows Ikithon, who proceeds after the footman at a leisurely pace. Pierova is dressed in full Volstrucker uniform, black mask, impeccable gray clothes, spotless boots, but Bren is no longer in the scarlet tunic of a student. Instead, Ikithon provided him with clothing simple but well-made, and over all a long, black coat, high in the collar and buttoned all the way down. Bren prefers this coat to the red jacket, he thinks.

They pass down a long, lushly-carpeted hallway lined with portraits of long-dead archmages. Bren has the uneasy feeling their eyes track him as he passes by, and does not look back at any of the paintings.

At the end of the hallway stand double doors with golden handles, which the footman knocks on and then opens. “Archmage Ikithon to see you, sir,” he intones, and bows as he steps back to let in Ikithon, Bren, and Pierova.

As they enter the study, a silver-haired elf in robes of midnight blue and white rises from behind his desk, smiling tightly. “Ikithon,” he says, inclining his head. “I see you brought associates.”

“Da’leth.” Ikithon nods back. “I thought it fitting they come.”

Archmage Ludinus Da’leth looks over Bren and Pierova, and as his gaze passes over Bren’s face, he frowns slightly. “Come, sit,” he says, gesturing towards a table and chairs to one side of the room. “Cadmus, bring tea for four, if you would,” he says to the footman.

“Yes, sir.” Cadmus bows again and withdraws, the doors closing softly behind him.

Ikithon and Da’leth take chairs facing each other across the small round table; Pierova hooks a chair with her heel and drags it across the carpet towards her, dropping down into it, making Da’leth wince slightly. “These chairs are antiques,” he says, piqued.

“Sorry, sir,” says Pierova flatly.

Slowly, Bren sits in the one remaining chair, closest to the tall window. From here he can see down into the heart of Rexxentrum, the streets bustling with citizens going about their daily business. Only a pale dusting of snow touches the roofs, but the chill grey sky threatens more.

“Winter comes,” remarks Ikithon.

Raising a dark eyebrow, Da’leth glances out the window. “Yes,” he says. Fine lines crease at the corners of his eyes and mouth, the mark of an aged elf. “It will be a long one, I think.”

“Xhorhas certainly wishes it were so.”

Da’leth snorts, saying, “Xhorhas wishes a great many things that will never come to them as long as I am alive.” His piercing blue eyes fix on Ikithon. “Or are they doing more than just wishing?”

Pausing delicately, Ikithon says, “You are aware they are increasing the frequency of their sorties on the eastern outposts, no doubt.”

“Of course.” Da’leth glances up as Cadmus enters the room, this time followed by a maid who bears a tray of tea things, including a steaming silver pot, four cups, and a small dish of biscuits. “They can poke at us all they like, but the garrisons are well-equipped.”

The maid crosses over, setting the tray down on the table. “Thank you,” says Da’leth, and she bows and backs away before leaving the room.

Waiting until the door is closed, Ikithon leans in and says, “But what if they plan to do more than just poke?”

Da’leth pauses with his hands on the teapot, one eyebrow lifted sharply. “What have you heard?”

Ikithon glances over at Pierova, who sighs and crosses her legs. “I was at Ashguard Garrison three weeks ago,” she says. “They have a Krick captain, captured – well, had.” She flexes her hand, knuckles crackling. “He carried maps. Detailed maps. Of the eastern border. And of our garrisons. Maps that he was drawing himself.”

Eyes widening slightly, Da’leth says, “They’re planning an incursion. This is war.” Bren shivers, a chill creeping down his spine.

Ikithon inclines his head. “So it would seem.”

“Have you brought this to the king?” Da’leth hands the teapot to Ikithon, his own full cup steaming gently in front of him.

“Not yet,” says Ikithon delicately, and pours himself tea. “I thought it prudent to wait until we had… more concrete information. There have been sorties on the border for years, and we are at a crucial stage where a delicate touch is required.”

“Play our hand too early, and we throw ourselves into a war we aren’t prepared for,” muses Da’leth. “Wait too long, and risk Xhorhas catching us with our pants around our ankles.” Behind her mask, Pierova snorts.

“We need to build up our defenses.” Ikithon cages his fingers around the teacup, leaning in again towards Da’leth. “Shore up our strengths. Draw them in towards us, and then when they hit, unleash the full might of the Empire. This is not a fight we want to start, but we will finish it.”

The scent of the tea wafts over to Bren, herbal and slightly woodsy. In their little silver dish, the pale golden bars of the biscuits have been stacked neatly across each other, a single delicate sprig of winter lavender placed on top. Bren’s stomach, empty since supper last night, twists around itself.

“We need,” continues Ikithon, dropping his voice, “more _power_.”

Both of Da’leth’s eyebrows slowly climb up, his expression hardening faintly. “Your experiments, you mean.”

“Are _highly_ successful.” Turning in his seat, Ikithon gestures to Bren. “Bren, come, show him.”

Obediently, Bren gets up to stand beside Ikithon, rolling up his coat and shirt sleeve. The crystal pushes up under his skin, a jagged orange point breaking through. “Awakened residuum,” whispers Ikithon, his eyes alight. “The possibilities are incredible, Ludinus. We are embarking on a new Golden Age of magic.”

“Interesting,” murmurs Da’leth, and reaches for Bren’s arm. “May I?”

Bren looks at Ikithon, who nods. Moving closer, Bren holds himself still as Da’leth takes his arm and inspects it, tilting it towards the light before gently probing around the crystal. “You’ve outdone yourself, Trent,” he says, so flatly Bren wonders if it’s sarcasm.

If it is, Ikithon doesn’t seem to notice, or at least care. “We have only just scratched the surface of what is possible,” he says eagerly. “I foresee great things ahead. For the Empire, for us.”

Frowning, Da’leth lets go of Bren’s arm and looks up at him. “I’ve seen you before,” he says. “Haven’t I?”

“Bren was a former student of mine.” Ikithon lays a possessive hand on Bren’s other arm. “You may remember a nasty little incident some years ago where he… suffered a break in his education, shall we say.”

Da’leth snorts. “That’s not the only thing of yours he broke, if I recall.”

Lips twitching tightly, Ikithon says, “Well, he is back now, and coming along better than ever. Wouldn’t you agree, Bren?”

Eyes fixed on the biscuits, Bren nods.

“Oh,” says Da’leth. “Please, have some.”

Bren reaches for the dish before he can stop himself, but manages not to grab one, instead looking at Ikithon for permission. “Go ahead,” says Ikithon.

“Thank you,” murmurs Bren, and takes a biscuit before retreating back to his chair. The hard cookie crumbles in his mouth, rich and buttery. Bren nibbles, savoring each bite.

Meanwhile, Da’leth looks from Bren to Ikithon with unsettled realization dawning on his face. “Trent…” he says slowly.

“Mm?”

Da’leth opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, frowning and shaking his head instead. “Be careful how you go,” he mutters. “That is all.”

Ikithon chuckles, slightly artificial. “I always do, my friend.” He stresses the last word infinitesimally.

“Well,” says Da’leth, getting to his feet. “We have much to plan and discuss, I think.”

“Yes, indeed.” Ikithon rises, and Bren and Pierova stand as well. “When will I next see you again? The gala at the Soltryce Academy, I believe?”

“Yes, yes. I will be there.” Da’leth sighs, gathering in the full sleeves of his robe. “Please, should you hear anything more…”

Ikithon inclines his head slightly. “Of course. The second I do. We must be prepared, you and I.”

Appraising him, Da’leth nods. “We will be.”

\--

In his dream, Bren’s childhood home burns, flames reaching up to the dark sky. He stands on the threshold, staring into the yawning black cavern of the doorway. “Bren!” screams Una from inside. “Hilf mir!”

Bren trembles, his throat full of smoke.

“Hilfe!” yells Leofric. “Bitte, hilfe!”

The heat from the burning building assails Bren as he steps inside. The front room is empty, embers swirling through it, and a burning timber crashes down in front of Bren. He stops short, heart pounding. “Mutter? Vater?” he calls.

No one answers. But pain pierces Bren in the neck and arms and he gasps, clutching one wrist in the other. Pushing his sleeve up past the elbow, he reveals the crystals in his arm, spreading and mutating, spikes pushing through his splitting skin. “Nein,” mutters Bren, clawing at the residuum. “Nein, nein, nein –”

His already-broken skin tears further, blood trickling down his forearm. Bren digs his fingernails into his flesh, trying to rip out the crystals, but his own blood burns him. And the blood keeps flowing, and flowing, and flowing, until both his hands are gloved in it, and Bren stares stupidly down at his dripping hands…

The house has changed to a ship. The burning ship, the one he can’t remember. And in front of him stands the half-orc again. “Cay,” he says. “Caleb. Can you hear me?”

 _Fjord,_ thinks Bren. _That’s his name._

“It’s all right,” says Fjord, and reaches out to take hold of Caleb’s arm.

Bren wakes with a gasp in his darkened bedroom, sweat on his chest and forehead. The residuum in his neck and arms throbs and burns. A tear rolls out of his eye and down the side of his face, though he doesn’t know why. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into the darkness, not knowing to who. “I didn’t mean to. I…”

But the dark offers nothing in return.

\--

Da’leth and Ikithon pace slowly together down the long hall of the Soltryce Academy, their entourages following after them. Ikithon keeps Bren close, close enough that Bren can hear Ikithon say, “How did the king take it?”

“As you’d expect. Irritation, frustration, suspicion. He approved my plan to bolster recruitment and increase the armies by at least ten percent.” Da’leth’s words are as measured as his steps, his hands clasped behind his back. “I expect to begin very soon.”

“Good, good,” mutters Ikithon, head bowed in thought. “We must be careful who we recruit, though.”

Da’leth looks at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

Sighing, Ikithon says quietly, “There are certain populations in this Empire whose loyalty I am less than sure of.” He levels a shrewd look at Da’leth. “You know of which I speak.”

Rich blue robes rustling, Da’leth comes to a halt and faces Ikithon. The rest of the retinue stops as well, Bren standing behind and to the side of his master. “Yes,” he says slowly. “I rather think I do.”

“They cling to their old traditions, their own language, their own ways of living,” continues Ikithon, so quietly Bren can barely hear him. “Many still consider themselves the true inheritors of this land. How many would aid a Xhorhasian incursion just to see the Empire fall?”

He’s talking about the Zemnians, Bren realizes with a jolt of horror. My people.

“They were occupied once, and they have never forgotten that,” whispers Ikithon. “Rebellion festers there.”

“I know,” says Da’leth, just as quietly. “I have not let them go unwatched. But there has not been justification for further action.”

Ikithon pauses, arranging the sleeves of his robe. “No,” he says. “Not yet.”

“Hm.” Da’leth glances back around at the mages accompanying him and Ikithon, and once again as he sees Bren, his brows furrow slightly. “I understand,” he says to Ikithon, low and quick. “Do not think me unconcerned with the threat. But we should not discuss this here.”

Bowing his head in acknowledgement, Ikithon resumes walking. “It’s almost time for us to speak, isn’t it?”

“I believe so.”

Reaching the end of the hallway, they file through an arched wooden door and down along the flight of marble stairs, looking out over a slowly-gathering crowd of Rexxentrum’s elite. Bren shuffles to the back, behind Ikithon, and keeps his face as blank as a mask as he tries to parse the conversation he just heard.

Are there really Zemnians who want to overthrow the Empire? Bren can’t remember any organized groups. But he’d heard his own parents planning rebellion, hadn’t he? Except he hadn’t. Except he had. He thought Ikithon was lying. But Da’leth agreed with him.

Cold shivers along Bren’s skin, and he stare at nothing, the Soltryce Academy headmaster’s words dissipating into white noise around him. All he can smell is smoke.

The people around Bren jostle as Ikithon steps forward, taking his place at the front of the landing. “Thank you, Headmaster,” he proclaims, voice magically amplified. “As always, I am immensely proud to take on those few, brightest stars from the firmament here…”

Astrid steps up beside Bren. Like him, she is dressed head-to-toe in black, her short hair neatly slicked back. What looks like the edge of a burn scar peeks out from under her collar. “You look very slick,” she says.

Underneath her flat tone is a hint of the wry warmth Bren remembers, and he stares at her, heart pounding. “Astrid?”

“Yes, it is still me in here,” she says. “Occasionally.” She gazes ahead with crystalline green eyes, staring through the head of the mage in front of her. “I am glad you made it, for while I was not sure you would.”

Bren frowns at her. “Why not?”

“Not everyone has the strength to endure what we do.”

Something about this irritates Bren, though he doesn’t know what. “I did what I had to to survive.”

“Yes.” Astrid raises her eyebrows at him. “So did I. So do we all. But for many, that still isn’t enough.”

Jaw tensing, Bren falls silent. _I did what I had to,_ he repeats to himself. _I survived. I’m still here._ A grim sort of satisfaction coils inside him.

Ikithon concludes his speech and turns, passing back through the assembled mages to his group. “Come along,” he says, beckoning, and begins heading up the stairs. Astrid falls in line behind him, and Bren trails her. As they ascend the marble steps, Bren becomes aware of some kind of disturbance in the crowd, people muttering, but pays it no mind until –

“ _Caleb!_ ”

The man’s cry, rough and urgent, locks Bren in place. He stares unseeing at Astrid’s back in front of him, his heart pounding. Does he know that voice?

“Caleb!” shouts the man again. “Cay, it’s me, Fjord –” People cry out and armor clinks, the Crownsguard stepping in. Bren cannot move, cannot breathe, panic locking his mind.

Turning, Astrid raises an eyebrow. “Bren?” she says softly.

From below, the man shouts again, “Caleb!” Exertion strains his voice. “Caleb!”

Bren turns around. A half-orc stands on the floor before him, held back by an armored guard, other attendees drawing back from him. His skin is green, his hair dark, and a scar slices his left eyebrow. He looks up at Bren with desperation, his hair falling in his face.

Bren’s seen his face before. He knows he has. Why can’t he remember where? He shivers.

Pushing past Astrid, Ikithon steps up beside Bren. “Bren?” he says, and Bren can hear the scalpel underneath his voice. “A friend of yours?”

Uneasy memories surface. This man is a pirate, isn’t he? And Bren served on a ship with him – served under him? He remembers waking in fear, and a heavy hand pinning him into the mattress, and his stomach curls.

“No,” Bren says, keeping his voice rigidly under control. “I do not know him.” And he follows Ikithon back up the stairs.


	13. Act III, Scene 1

“It was the way he looked at me,” says Fjord, staring into his mug of gently-steaming tea. “Like he didn’t remember me. Like he didn’t even know who I was.”

Sitting across the table from him with his hand folded around his own cup, Caduceus watches Fjord with sympathy. “You said this Trent Ikithon had modified his memories before,” Caduceus says, voice comfortingly gravelly. “He probably did it again.”

Probably, and don’t the thought of that make Fjord sick to his stomach, Ikithon rooting around in Caleb’s head and erasing any memories he has of Fjord. He sighs down at his tea and takes a sip of the amber-colored liquid. The taste, sweeter than he expected with a warmth of spices, makes him frown up at the firbolg. “What kind of tea is this?”

Caduceus’ eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Edgewoods. Real nice family.”

Fjord stares at him, trying to deduce how literally he should take that. “Right.”

This early in the morning, the tavern is mostly empty, only a couple other patrons making their way through breakfast as a pale winter sun shines in through the high windows. Ariadne, the tavern owner and the Gentleman’s contact, sits behind the bar writing in a ledger or notebook of some sort, though Fjord has the distinct impression that she watches him when he’s not looking. “They had lead on them,” he continues quietly, sipping his tea. “On their gauntlets when they grabbed me. I couldn’t do anything. It was like I’d never had powers at all.”

Caduceus doesn’t say anything, just sits there with his spoon-like ears turned towards Fjord to listen better.

“I hated it,” says Fjord bluntly. “I never want to feel like that again.”

Watching him shrewdly, Caduceus says, “Are you upset because you didn’t have your powers, or because you couldn’t help Caleb?”

Fjord frowns, not seeing the distinction. “Both, I guess. They’re the same thing, aren’t they? What’s the point of me if I can’t even rescue someone I…” He trails off, staring back into his tea.

Whatever Caduceus was about to say is forestalled by Yasha joining them at the table. “So,” she says, once she’s disentangled her broadsword from the back of the chair. “I heard about last night.”

Her tone is matter-of-fact, but there’s a quiet pity in her eyes. “Yep,” says Fjord.

“What are we going to do?”

Fjord sighs, but really, there was only ever one option. “We’re rescuin’ Caleb.” His tone does not leave room for disagreement.

Yasha smiles slightly. “Good.”

\--

The sphere of acid splashes against the stone floor, leaving behind an oily, green-gold residue. “Good,” says Ikithon. “Again.”

Bren raises his hand to work the magic again, but pauses, unable to shake memories from the previous night. “Who was that half-orc?” he says, frowning at Ikithon. “At the gala.”

He regrets asking the second the words leave his mouth as Ikithon’s expression goes cold and flat. Bren freezes, waiting for punishment. “The one who called out for you, you mean,” says Ikithon, and Bren nods.

Sighing, Ikithon sits down at the table he keeps in the back of the training room, careful of the various vials, jars, and notebooks stored there. “Bren,” he says slowly. “When you came to us, we rescued you from pirates. Do you remember that?”

This doesn’t sound right to Bren, who says, frowning, “Bransomer took me out of a jail cell in Nicodranus…”

“Yes, but before that.” Impatience colors Ikithon’s voice. “You had been on a pirate ship that was wrecked.”

There had been an explosion, hadn’t there? Bren remembers the heat, and the shockwave, and floating to shore on a piece of shattered deck, but anything before that is frustratingly vague. Why can’t he remember? He should be able to remember. “Yes,” he says slowly.

Ikithon raises his eyebrows. “You remember the ship?”

Bren remembers _a_ ship, the rush of the sea breeze, the creaking of wood, the shouting of deckhands as they furl the sails. And then the same ship at night, on fire. Was that the explosion?

No.

That was a dream he had.

Wasn’t it?

Pain throbs gently at Bren’s temples and he winces. “I think so,” he rasps. “It’s difficult.”

Facing creasing sympathetically, Ikithon says, “You suffered quite a lot of trauma, do not be surprised if some memories are hard to access. Your psyche is only trying to protect itself.”

Ice slips into Bren’s stomach. “Protect itself from… what?”

Ikithon sighs. “Sit here,” he says gently, and indicates the other chair beside him.

 _Something’s wrong_ , thinks Bren, as he slowly seats himself. _Something’s very, very wrong_.

“What I am about to say will be very hard to hear.” Ikithon leans forward and puts a hand on Bren’s knee, his fingers like the leafless sticks of a tree in winter. “After you were arrested for trying to break into a Cobalt Reserve, you were on a Clovis Concord ship bound for trial in Nicodranus. The _Tide’s Breath_ , captained by Erik Vandran, accosted the ship and took its bounty, including you. You were press-ganged into service as a ship’s mage.

“Some time later, Vandran fell to a mutiny, and his quartermaster, Fjord Stone, took the captaincy of the ship. He kept you on as a mage, but his interests were… personal, as well. He kept you. He used you. Not just for your magic, but for your body.” Ikithon licks his lips, bony fingers lacing together, glinting eyes fixed on Bren. “You were raped, Bren. You were abused, and under his thrall. It was a traumatic time, and if there are gaps in your memory, that is to be expected. Some things are too painful to be recalled.”

Elbows braced on his knees, Bren stares into nothingness. The individual words bounce around in his head like pebbles in a jar, _raped, used, abused._ His hands feel cold.

“I thought you would be safe from him, here in Rexxentrum,” continues Ikithon, as if from a great distance away. “He ventured inland farther than I thought.”

Ragged bits of memory float to the forefront of Bren’s mind: a ship, not the one he stands on, going up in flames; lead around his neck as he screams into the filthy straw of a brig cell; a rough, green-skinned hand on his bare skin. The last one makes Bren’s heart speed briefly, throat tightening, and he struggles for breath.

“But not to fear, Bren. You will never see him again.”

Bren remembers the half-orc at the gala and the desperation in his voice and was that the cry of a vengeful captor? He tries to match that with what Ikithon told him and a stabbing pain hits Bren in the temple, making him wince and grind his forehead into his palm.

“Bren?” Ikithon touches him on the knee again. “Are you all right?”

Gasping, Bren straightens. “Ja.” He won’t think about it. Not now, not with Ikithon watching him so closely. “Ja. I am fine.”

\--

A week later, Fjord convenes with his crew in one of the private dining rooms upstairs at Ariadne’s tavern. Ariadne, a broad, middle-aged human woman with greying red hair, joins as well. “So,” says Fjord, seating himself at the head of the table. “What do we got?”

“Vergesson Sanitorium,” pronounces Molly, and lays a hand-drawn map of a building on the table with a flourish. “Ikithon has offices there, and apparently it’s where he conducts a majority of his research. Nott and I were able to sneak in and get an idea of the layout.”

Fjord looks down at the map, which has more gaps than filled-in areas. “Yeah?”

“Well… some of it, at least,” says Nott, wrinkling her nose.

“Things got a little out of hand,” says Molly. “There was scrambled egg, it was awful. You don’t want to know.”

“Okay,” says Fjord, who kind of thinks he doesn’t. “Beau?”

She lays her own building diagram on the table, this one smaller but somewhat more complete. “Jester and I checked out Ikithon’s estate, I think we got a pretty good view of everything there.” She looks at Jester for corroboration, who nods. “Ikithon has his own manor, and then there’s a handful of other houses on the grounds too. If Caleb is being kept at the estate, probably it’s in one of those homes.”

Something about that makes Fjord’s skin crawl, Caleb being kept like some kind of pet on a gold leash. “Great,” he says. “Yasha? What’d you find?”

With a loud clanging, Yasha dumps an armful of swords on the table.

Fjord raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Nice. Caduceus?”

“Hm?” Caduceus blinks at him, pleasantly confused.

“What’d you find out about fixing someone’s memories?”

“Oh!” says Caduceus, and smiles. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Trying not to be too overtly skeptical, Fjord says, “You can just do that now? Just like that?”

“Yeah. Wildmother showed me how.” Caduceus smiles wider for a second before his face drops into a frown. “I don’t know how much I’ll be able to fix, depending on what Ikithon’s done to Caleb,” he says seriously. “But I can help.”

Hearing that lifts a weight off Fjord’s chest, and he nods to Caduceus. “I appreciate it.” He passes over Bluud, who declined to participate in rescue preparations and is here as Jester’s bodyguard only, and looks to Ariadne at the opposite end of the table. “And what about you?”

Ariadne looks around at the group with wry amusement. “Jester, remind me to thank your father, because these people are a gift,” she says.

Trying to determine if he should take offense, Fjord frowns. “We amusin’ to you?”

Lifting an eyebrow, Ariadne sets down the knitting in her hands. “So by the sound of it, here’s your plan,” she says. “You find out where they’re holding Caleb, storm in en masse, use a combination of intimidation and force to make your way to him, take him, and leave in a hurry with smoke in your wake?”

Fjord considers this. “Sounds about right, yeah.”

“How very like a pirate of you,” and Ariadne smiles.

Chewing his lip over the nubs of his tusks, Fjord levels a long, searching look at her across the table. “Right,” he says. “What would you suggest?”

Ariadne taps one of her knitting needles thoughtfully. “Do any of you know who the Volstrucker are?”

The name doesn’t mean anything to Fjord, who glances around at the rest of his companions. They all look just as blank as he is, except Beau. “Yeah,” she says. “Maybe. Yeah. No? I feel like I’ve heard it before.”

“I’m not surprised, Cobalt Soul,” says Ariadne. “Volstrucker are the secret scourge of the Empire, an elite cadre of mage-assassins trained up by Ikithon and loaned out to the king for all his threat-eliminating needs.” She nods to Fjord. “From what I’ve gathered about your Caleb, he was probably being trained to be one.”

Fjord digests this new information. As horrible as it is, it makes sense. The things Caleb can do, the way he spoke of his time with Ikithon… “Right,” he says. “So we’re goin’ to be dealin’ with them, then.”

“Almost certainly.”

“And I’m guessin’ we don’t have the firepower to hold up.”

Shrugging, Ariadne says, “If the rumors I’ve heard are true, no.”

Ignoring the apprehensive glances shot at him, Fjord says, “So then, let me reiterate my previous question. What do you suggest we do?”

Ariadne smiles and pulls out one of the needles from her knitting. As she does, the thread unravels, snaking its way across the table to lay itself out on Molly’s map of the Sanatorium, filling in the missing walls and corners. “First,” she says, “you need a path.”

\--

Fjord and Molly crouch in the shadow of a large elm tree, watching the moonlit gates of the Vergessen Sanatorium just down the road. Nervous energy thrums through Fjord, and he flexes his fingers through empty air where he wants the falchion to be. _Not yet_ , he tells himself. _Not yet._

Beside him, Molly drags clawed fingers through the dirt, his tail swishing in excitement and his lip curled in a grin. “God, I love a good heist,” he mutters.

“It’s not a heist,” mutters Fjord. “It’s a rescue.”

Molly’s fangs catch the moonlight as he says, “Same difference.”

Beyond the gates, a slight figure in an orderly’s uniform darts up. Fjord stiffens, grabbing Molly’s arm. “Let’s go.”

The figure cautiously swings open a smaller door within the wrought-iron gates as Fjord and Molly sprint up. “Come on,” hisses Beau, waving them through, her monk wraps and jewelry peeking out from under the gray tunic. A little bird sits on her shoulder, plump and blue. “Quickly.”

The iron gate shuts behind Fjord and Molly, and they duck with Beau into the shelter of the wall. In the moonlight, the gabled buildings of the Sanatorium loom over them, pale as bone. The darkened windows in the front of the main structure look like entrances to a crypt. With a flutter of wings, the blue bird flits away into the night. Fjord whispers to himself, power tingling at his fingertips, and draws shadows around himself, Beau, and Molly like a cloak.

They crouch together for minutes, Fjord’s heart pounding like a drum. The little blue bird flies back and lands on Beau’s shoulder, chirping twice, distinctly. “Thanks, Jess,” mutters Beau. “We’re clear.”

The group of them sprint around to the back of the largest building, towards the stables. The broad wooden doors are shut, but Jester flutters up off Beau’s shoulder and under the eaves of the stable, where gaps were left for the swallows to fly in and out. A few moments later, one of the doors swings open, Caduceus pushing his shoulder against it. He glances around warily, moonlight shining off his wide-set eyes, as Beau, Fjord, and Molly run into the warm, hay-smelling dark of the stable. “Everythin’ okay in here?” says Fjord, once the door closes behind them.

“Oh yeah,” says Caduceus. “I’ve been talking to the horses, they’re great. You wouldn’t believe some of the things they’ve seen –”

With a poof of feathers and a swirl of skirts, Jester regains her tiefling form. “I hope Yasha’s doing okay,” she frets.

“I’m sure she’s fine.” Beau sheds her orderly’s clothes with distaste. Muscles in her abdomen ripple as she pulls her blue coat back on. “Fjord, how you doing?”

“Peachy.” Fjord summons the falchion and spins it in his hand, just for the comfort of having it. “How long ‘till Nott comes back?”

Caduceus leans against one of the stall doors, idly scratching behind the ears of the draft horse that hangs its head over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t be long,” he says.

Nervous tension thrumming in his blood, Fjord paces along the row of stalls, horses snorting as the yellow light from the falchion’s eye passes by them. His mind spins up a hundred different scenarios of seeing Caleb again: will the fog lift when Caleb sees him, and he’ll fall into Fjord’s arms? Will Fjord have to convince Caleb of the truth? Will Caleb be scared? Will Fjord have to fight him? What if Ikithon lies in wait?

A dark shape skitters across the back of the stable and Fjord tenses before realizing it’s Nott, her hood drawn over her head. “Well?” demands Fjord, as she draws closer. “Where is he?”

“North wing, attic, gable room on the right,” says Nott. Her eyes gleam from under the hood as she glances up at Fjord. “He’s in there right now, sleeping.”

Fjord disappears and reappears the falchion with a flick of his wrist. “He see you?”

“No, of course not.” Nott does a little slide along the straw-covered floor of the stable. “I was coooool as a cucumber.”

“Right.” Spinning the falchion, Fjord looks back at the rest of his crew. “Then let’s do this.”

\--

Because Bren sleeps so poorly now, even the slight noise of his door creaking open is enough to wake him. He freezes in his bed, holding his breath, curled up with his back to the door. Maybe this is Ikithon, come in to watch him sleep. Wouldn’t surprise him. Bren forces himself to breathe slow and evenly, his heart in his throat, all his attention focused on what he hears behind him. But there are no footsteps, no creaking floorboards. And a second later, the soft sound of the door closing.

Bren lets out a slow, measured breath, counting down. Fünf. Vier. Drie. Zwei. Eins. Nothing else moves. Cautiously, he lifts his head and looks over his shoulder.

His dark room is empty, shadows pooling under the angled roof. Bren sits up slowly, watching the door. He wants to tell himself it was nothing, that he should go back to sleep, but he can’t.

 _What was the point of all that training if you are just going to sit around with your thumb in your ass?_ says Caleb.

Throwing the covers off, Bren slowly sits up, his bare feet resting on the wooden floorboards. With a gesture and a few whispered words, amber lights float above him, softly lighting the room. No one in it but him.

Drawing his long black coat on over his pajamas, Bren pads to the door and presses his ear to it. Nothing. Slowly, he pushes it open, the glow from his magelights illuminating the hallway. It’s empty here too.

Bren stands in the doorway, deliberating. It probably was just Ikithon, and if not, then someone checking Bren at his direction. The smart thing would be to go back to bed, pretend it never happened. But something itches at him, and Bren rubs absently at the crystals in his forearm. Maybe it’s not Ikithon. Maybe it’s something else. Maybe this is a chance for Bren to prove himself.

Slipping out into the hallway, Bren shuts the door quietly behind him. Padding along to the junction, Bren looks around the corner. Once again, nothing, the entire length of the hallway empty.

Bren doesn’t like this, and he taps his fingers, considering. Ikithon doesn’t move very fast. Maybe it wasn’t him after all. Then again, maybe he’s invisible. But surely Bren would still hear footsteps, or breathing, or _something_. The silence of the house feels unnatural, as if wool fills his ears.

“Schei _ß_ e,” mutters Bren. “All right, all right,” and he hurries forward. Double doors block the end of the hallway, and he tugs on the handle to open them. They stay firmly locked.

Brow furrowed, Bren considers options. He knows a spell to unlock the doors instantly, but it’s loud. Anything that leaves a mark, and Ikithon will know Bren’s been wandering around. Crouching, Bren checks the gap under the door. It’s very small, but the carpet is deep, leaving additional room. Good. Bren closes his eyes and draws on the residuum and becomes a tiny copper snake, weaving along the rug. He slips under the gap in the door, tasting the air on his tongue, and – ah.

The mystery intruder may not have left footprints, but they have left quite the scent trail. Both oily and acidic, with the distinctive tang of someone living unwashed in their clothes for many days. And underneath it, a thread of something strange and tarry that Bren doesn’t definitively recognize, but makes him think, _goblin…_

Goblin. That startles Bren enough that he slips back into his human form, now taking it slow down the stairs to the second floor in case one of them creaks. What’s a _goblin_ doing here, not only in the Sanatorium but this deep in the Empire at all?

Something else about goblins twists funnily in his head. Why should he recognize that scent at all? He’s never met one.

A faint but precise ache in his temple, Bren makes it halfway down the stairs when a sudden loud thump sounds below him. He freezes, waiting two seconds, and then hurries down to the landing. His magelights still flickering around his head, Bren raises his hand, flames whispering over his fingers, and slowly opens the door.

\--

“Goddammit, Caduceus!” snaps Fjord under his breath. “You tryin’ to wake up the entire place?”

Ears drooping sheepishly, Caduceus picks himself up from the floor. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I missed the step.”

Fjord growls, glancing around them frantically, but the hallway and stairwell remain empty. Nose wrinkled, Beau paces in slowly, Jester shadowing her. “Did you see the paintings back there?” Beau says. “The eyes move.”

Half a flight above them, Molly leans over the bannister, patterned coat swinging around him. Nott lurks further up the stairs. “Looks clear!” Molly whispers.

Falchion in hand, Fjord slowly ascends. Despite the rapid pounding of his heart, he keeps himself calm, steady, focused. Water drips from the sword blade, _drip-drip-drip_ , as he ascends, the yellow eye lighting the way. He climbs up to the next landing, pausing at the doorway, and looks back for his crew.

They’re not there.

Fjord freezes, panic chilling his skin, but the stairs below and above him are empty. “This some kind of trick?” he hisses. “Caduceus? Beau?”

 _No, it’s no trick_ , says a voice in his head. Male, old, smugly refined. Dwendalian accent. _Please, come join me._ The door on the landing swings open.

Staring at the open door, Fjord tightens his grip on the falchion. Could be Ikithon in there, just wanting to have a simple chat. Or it’s a death trap. “Why? So you can blast my head off?”

With a tinge of distaste, Ikithon says, _Hardly, that’s rather more your line of work, isn’t it?_

“Where’s my crew?” Fjord demands.

_Safe, for now, as long as you cooperate. Come in. There’s someone here who’d like to talk to you._

Caleb. Fjord’s heart thuds, his blood roaring in his ears. He steps through the door.

\--

Bren had forgotten about the labyrinth.

He’d only seen it twice when he was last a student, and briefly at that. But when he exits the stairwell directly into Ikithon’s study, which he knows is at the other end of the building, the memories snap into place. “Ah,” says Bren, quietly.

“Yes,” says Ikithon, sitting at his desk, draped in deep purple robes. “Sit down, we’re about to have a visitor.”

Bren frowns. “The goblin?”

Snorting delicately, Ikithon folds his hands on his desk. “Hardly. Sit, please,” and he points to the chair beside him.

As Bren lowers himself into the chair, magic shivers around him, and his limbs lock in place. Panic jumps to Bren’s throat. “Sir?”

“Just a precaution.”

Bren flexes his wrists uselessly, trying hard to stay calm. Who’s coming here that Ikithon would bother restraining him –

The door opens, and the half-orc, Fjord, steps through.

Bren’s heart hammers in his chest, blood draining from his face. Fjord has a barnacle-encrusted sword in his hand with a wicked, curved blade, and a streak of white in his dark hair, and when he sees Bren, a brief surge of emotion crosses his face before the muscles in his jaw tighten and his expression grows hard. “Let him go,” he growls at Ikithon, low and deadly.

Adrenaline spikes in Bren, and he can’t tear his gaze away from Fjord. This is the man who held him captive, who violated him, so why does his heart leap at the danger in his voice?

“Interesting,” murmurs Ikithon. “Possessiveness. I wonder, Bren, would he feel that way about you if he knew what you had done?”

Bren goes cold all over. But it shouldn’t matter, should it, not to a pirate –

“Yeah, I already know what he’s done, and I know it was your fault, you manipulative son of a bitch,” snarls Fjord. “I don’t care. Let him go.” And he points his sword at Ikithon.

Spreading his hands, Ikithon says, “I’m not holding him here.” He looks over at Bren, who swallows, feeling sick. “Bren? Do you want to go with him?”

“I…” Bren stares at Fjord, head pounding. Memories assail him like punches to the gut, the stink of tar on the ship’s deck, men screaming as fire rips through their ship, Fjord’s hand knotted in Caleb’s hair as he pushes his face into the mattress. A cold hand grips his gut. “No…” he stammers. “I mean. I. I don’t –” and he gasps for air.

Fjord stares at him with a gradual horror on his face. “Cay?” he says. “You remember me, right?”

Bren nods, shaking, and his head hurts _so much_ and he wants this man to go, he wants him to stay, he doesn’t know what he wants –

“Why don’t you tell him, Bren?” bites off Ikithon, icy. “Tell him what you remember.”

Maybe it’s the labyrinth, but the complete lack of sounds outside this room weighs heavier on Bren than ever. He swallows thickly, and the saliva in his throat is so loud and distinct he’s sure everyone else can hear it too. One of Ikithon’s little magic instruments goes _click, click, click_ as its gear turns…

“You are a pirate,” Bren says hoarsely. “You kept me on your ship. You…” He doesn’t want to put voice to the things Ikithon told him, to make them real. But they _are_ real, aren’t they? Pain throbs in his temple, and sudden hate flares in him for Fjord. He was doing okay, he was _surviving_ , until this half-orc showed up and resurrected the past – “You used me,” he growls, and Fjord looks like Bren slapped him. “You abused me.”

The distress on Fjord’s face confuses Bren; why should he be upset? “You really believe that?” he whispers, looking stricken.

“I…” says Bren again. He does. Doesn’t he? He looks over at Ikithon, who regards Fjord with derision.

“Well,” says Ikithon. “What a shame, that you came here for nothing. Still, I must ask you to leave now, before –”

Distress turning to dark anger, Fjord fires a bolt of green-black energy out of his palm, straight at Ikithon, who swipes his hand through the air and conjures up a silvery arcane shield just in time. Bren lunges from his seat away from both of them, casting _Hold Person_ on Fjord. But the shadows ripple weirdly around Fjord and the spell doesn’t take.

The wooden doors burst inward as a massive woman dressed in dark leathers and furs kicks them in, sword in hand, a burn scar marking half her face. Fjord jumps out of her way, towards Bren, just as she swings her sword in a wicked arc towards Ikithon.

In a flash of purple light, Ikithon disappears and reappears between Bren and Fjord. His bony hand fastens on Fjord’s chest, shadow swirling around it, and Fjord groans and sags, eyes going wide and his face draining of color.

The barbarian woman turns towards Bren and he readies himself to throw fire, but her gaze meets his, and a chill runs up Bren’s spine as her bicolored eyes pierce him like a glass dagger. He’s seen her before. He knows who she is. Doesn’t he?

“Yasha,” wheezes Fjord, now leaning in his falchion to stay standing. His face is a ghastly shade of gray-green, Ikithon’s fingers digging into his chest.

 _Help him!_ screams Caleb.

Shaking, Bren hurls a bolt of fire at Yasha a second too late, hitting the opposite wall instead as she slices at Ikithon. Dropping Fjord, Ikithon reappears directly behind Bren, grabbing the back of Bren’s coat and pulling him close. “I would think, very carefully, about what your next move is,” Ikithon pants. Bren swallows hard, flames crackling on his raised hands. “Never come back here again, you or any of your ragtag crew.” His next words he directs at Yasha with carefully-calculated charm. “You, my dear, however, are welcome any time…”

Yasha, an arm under Fjord’s shoulders to support him, stares flatly at Ikithon. “Never.”

“Where’s my crew?” growls Fjord, face still ashen.

Ikithon shrugs. “Not having a very good time of it, I would imagine. Have you met my Volstruckers? They’re a very talented group of individuals –”

“Fjord,” says Yasha, “We need to leave –”

“ _No._ ” Barely standing, Fjord stares at Bren with a mixture of desperation and fury and says, “Caleb, _please_ , come with me –”

He reaches out and before Bren can think sparks flash around him, making Fjord yelp and fall back against Yasha. Bren stares back, shaking, Ikithon’s hand knotted tight in the collar of his coat.

 _“Now!_ ” yells Yasha, dragging Fjord backwards with her. Bren shoots another firebolt at them but this one also misses as Yasha throws herself and Fjord not to the doors, but through the latticed window. Glass shatters and metal snaps as she and Fjord smash through into the night.

Running to the window, Bren looks down to see them picking themselves off the pavement surrounded by glittering shards. “Get them!” snaps Ikithon. “Don’t let that half-breed get away!”

Bren raises his hand to cast a fireball but it trembles, the ache in his head pounding in time with the pulse of his residuum. A roaring fills his ears, and his own breath sounds loud as Yasha helps Fjord to his feet, both hobbling in pain. A purple tiefling gallops up to them on a shaggy gray horse with a pink mane, a goblin clinging to his back, followed by a young woman in cobalt robes on another horse, a blue tiefling sitting behind her and clutching tight. Two more horses follow them along with shouts and bursts of multi-colored magic. Fjord and Yasha clamber onto their mounts and gallop for the gates, but they’re locked –

With a fierce cry, the blue tiefling shoots her hands out and a brilliant white bolt of light blasts at the gates, rending them with a screeching of metal. The bright rays leave afterimages dancing on Bren’s eyes, and when his vision clears, the entire party has galloped down the road and out of sight.

“Sir!” Pierova bursts into the study, blonde hair in disarray, blood dripping from a cut on her cheek. “The intruders got away, they’re heading back into Rexxentrum. Should we pursue?”

Feeling Ikithon’s eyes on him, Bren turns around slowly. “No,” says Ikithon, and the glacial chill of his voice makes Bren’s insides quiver with fear. “Let them be a lesson learned. If they come back, I expect total destruction.”

Pierova gives Bren a long, searching look. “Yes, sir,” she says.

“Now go.”

Bowing, Pierova leaves, shutting the doors behind her. They don’t quite close, the broken latch dangling from the splintered wood.

Ikithon rounds on Bren with fire crackling in his eyes. “What,” he snaps, “was that? You were useless, Bren, absolutely useless!”

“I know,” stammers Bren, backing away from him, “I know, I know, I don’t know what happened –”

“Did it all go soft in here?” roars Ikithon, spittle flying from his lips, and taps Bren painfully on the forehead. “Do you not remember any of your training? Was all that effort _wasted_ on you?”

“No!” Bren steps back and a shard of glass slices into his bare heel; he gasps, staggering. “No, sir, I – I tried –”

Ikithon’s gaze grows hard and calculating, and he tilts his head. “If I didn’t know better, Bren,” he says, dangerously soft, “I’d think you were _trying_ to let them get away.”

Fear douses Bren like a wave of icy water. “No,” he breathes, lungs airless. “No. I wasn’t.”

For a long, long moment, Ikithon scrutinizes him, Bren’s heart hammering in his chest. And then his face relaxes minutely, and Bren lets out his breath in a _whoosh._ “Oh, Bren,” he says softly. “Come here.”

Gasping in relief, Bren steps forward and drops to his knees in front of Ikithon, who places a hand on Bren’s head. His cut heel stings, blood trickling down his foot. “I know,” murmurs Ikithon, smoothing back Bren’s hair. “It’s hard, sometimes, to tell what’s real and what isn’t.”

“Yes,” says Bren, voice cracking. His head hurts.

Ikithon’s fingers slide around the side of Bren’s head and under his chin, tilting Bren’s head up to meet Ikithon’s gaze. White hair mussed from the fight, Ikithon smiles down at Bren. “Next time,” he says softly, “I expect you to do better.”

Swallowing hard, Bren nods.

“Good.” Ikithon steps away, his hand leaving Bren’s skin. The places where he touched Bren crawl like a spider walked over them. “Now go back to bed. And get that foot taken care of.”

Bren stands, ignoring the pain in his heel. “Yes, sir.”


	14. Act III, Scene 2

As Jester lays her hand on Fjord’s arm, an icy coolness washes over him, soothing the throbbing pain in his elbow. “There,” says Jester, and gives him a little pat, Beau watching curiously from where she leans against the bedroom wall. “That should take care of it.”

“Thanks.” Fjord slowly straightens his arm and flexes his fingers, testing. No sign of the break from his fall out of the window remains. His other cuts and bruises have been healed as well. But he still hasn’t recovered from whatever kind of life-sucking touch Ikithon used on him; after spending a day in bed, he still feels weak and achy, like he’s recovering from a fever.

Jester’s finished healing Fjord, but she stays sitting by his bed, watching him worriedly. “Fjord?” she says quietly. “Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay, Jester?” Fjord snaps at her, and she shrinks back from him.

“Hey,” says Beau, frowning, arms folded, her left eye bruised and swollen half-shut. “Lay off of her.”

Fjord looks down, guilt prickling at him. The blanket is a patchwork of different red fabrics, slightly worn and faded. “Sorry.”

Leaning forward, Jester takes one of Fjord’s hands in both of her own. “It’s okay,” she says. 

“Is it?” The anger and pain from last night’s failure bubble up in Fjord again, choking him. “Is it really?” Tearing his hand free, he kicks the blanket off, aware of Beau stiffening warily. “He didn’t just – he didn’t just say he didn’t know me, Jester. He said I _abused_ him. That I took advantage of him, that he was a prisoner.” Fjord glares at Jester and Beau, throwing his legs over the side of the bed; Jester blushes faintly purple at the sight of him in his smallclothes. “He hurt me!”

“What, and you don’t think that was because fucking Trent Ikithon’s been fucking with his fucking head?” demands Beau, advancing on Fjord. “Come on!”

“I don’t know!” says Fjord. “Listen, Caleb and I only knew each other for a few months before the ship blew up, there’s things about him I don’t know, maybe he really was scared of me the whole time when I thought he wasn’t, maybe he was lyin’ about his past –”

Beau stares at him, exasperated. “Why would he lie about being brainwashed by an evil wizard?”

“Gain my sympathy or somethin’ –”

“Ah,” says Caduceus, pausing in the open doorway. “I think I can help with that, actually.” He smiles. “Are you up for a little walk?”

Fjord tests his feet on the ground: shaky but workable. “Sure,” he says. “Where’s my damn clothes?”

Caduceus takes him on a short walk through the streets of Rexxentrum, both of them swathed under heavy cloaks to ward off the gently-drifting snow. “Tell me we’re goin’ to a bar or somethin’,” says Fjord.

Humming a little, Caduceus pulls his gray cloak closer around himself, his soft boots leaving dark footprints behind on the snow-dusted flagstones. “Or something.”

They turn a corner, and then another one, and in a couple minutes Fjord realizes they’re heading right back to Ariadne’s tavern, the Seven Youths and Seven Maidens. “Hang on,” says Fjord. “We’re just headin’ back?”

“Yup.” Caduceus strides placidly along.

“Then what was the point of goin’ out?”

Tiny snowflakes stick to Caduceus’ long eyelashes as he smiles down at Fjord. “To get you to cool down a bit.”

Shaking slush off his boots, Fjord grumbles, “Well, I’m plenty cooled down now. Can we get back inside?”

Caduceus and Fjord tromp back through the tavern and up to Caduceus’ room, where Caduceus has Fjord sit on the bed while the firbolg prepares his ritual. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Caduceus sets down a wooden bowl, polished by use to a high sheen, and pours water from a glass vial into it. Then he sets down a narrow clay tray, props up a stick of incense in it, and with a whisper starts the incense gently smoldering. The musky, herbal scent fills the room as a coil of white smoke drifts lazily upwards. “What questions would you like to ask?” Caduceus says.

“Uhhh…” Fjord looks uncertainly around the little room. “Ask who?”

“The Wildmother.” Caduceus dips his fingers in the bowl, letting water trickle and drip back down, and Fjord catches a glimpse of somewhere _else_ in his wistful expression. “Do you know of Her?”

“I know a bit.” As a goddess of the sea, Melora has her fair share of worshippers in Darktow. And then there’s the lighthouse in Nicodranus. “You mean She… you mean She actually answers when you talk to Her?”

Caduceus smiles knowingly. “In a manner of speaking. Now,” and he settles himself in his seat, hands resting palm-up on his knees. “What do you want me to ask Her? Yes or no questions have the best chance of getting a clear answer.”

Letting out a heavy breath, Fjord considers, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “How many questions do I get?”

“Three.”

That’s not that many. Fjord taps his thumbs together, thinking. “Is Caleb really scared of me, or is he just brainwashed by Ikithon?” he says darkly, and Caduceus nods. “Can Caleb be saved?” One more. Fjord thinks long and hard before finally saying, “Can I save him?”

“All right.” Nodding, Caduceus closes his eyes. His breathing deepens and slows, and an attentive, listening expression settles on his face. The incense smoke continues to wind and dissipate, the bowl of water centered in front of Caduceus. “Is Caleb Widogast in his right mind?”

His voice sounds strange and distant, his words slow but distinct, and a funny shiver runs up Fjord’s spine. Leaning forward, Fjord watches Caduceus intently for any reaction, but not even his ears twitch. “Can Caleb be saved?”

Once again, if Caduceus gets a response, he doesn’t react. Fjord bites over one of his tusk nubs, stomach clenching nervously. “Is Fjord strong enough to do it?”

For a moment, Fjord swears he can feel a warm breeze ruffle his hair, even though the window and door are securely closed. With a slow sigh, Caduceus opens his eyes, gaze focused elsewhere. “Well?” demands Fjord. “What’d She say?”

“No, yes, and no,” says Caduceus slowly, still seeming distant.

No, yes, and no. Fjord matches that up with the questions. Then that means – “Ikithon’s got him brainwashed,” huffs Fjord, dropping his head in relief, though anger simmers underneath. “He doesn’t – he doesn’t actually hate me.”

“No,” says Caduceus. “No, She was – She was pretty clear about that.”

What had the second question been? Yes, Caleb can be saved. Fjord rakes his hands through his hair, shaking slightly. And the third question was…

“She said no,” says Fjord slowly. “She said I’m not strong enough to save Caleb.”

“Not yet,” clarifies Caduceus.

Fjord stares at Caduceus, a bass voice throbbing deep in his consciousness, _CONSUME_. “Not yet,” he repeats.

Looking a little confused, Caduceus says, “Yeah. Yeah, I think that’s what She meant.”

Summoning the falchion, Fjord stares back at the glassy yellow eye in the pommel. He smells the salt and tar of the _Tide’s Breath_ again, hears the crash of waves on a ship’s hull. Sees Avantika slicing Vandran’s throat. Feels the lead sap his power from him as the Crownsguard drag him out of the Soltryce Academy, remembers the way Ikithon dismissed his eldritch blast with a flick of his wrist, and a dark hunger rises in Fjord. “Right,” he says. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Caduceus frowns, ears flattening slightly.

“Yeah.” And Fjord turns, heading out the room and down the stairs until he reaches the main room of the tavern, where Ariadne stands behind the bar chatting and pouring beer for a patron. “All right,” says Fjord, slamming the falchion down on the bar, and both she and the patron jump, staring at him. “We did it your way. It didn’t work. Now it’s my way.”

Ariadne gives a slow, sideways glance to the patron, who looks thoroughly alarmed, before saying, “Your way.”

“Yeah. What was it you said?” Fjord tilts his head at her, a slightly manic smile playing at his lips. “Storm in, find Caleb with intimidation and force, grab him, and get the hell out?”

Setting the beer stein down, Ariadne nods once, acknowledging. “Like a pirate.”

“Exactly.” Fjord hefts the falchion up and disappears it, making the patron squeak in surprise. “Like a pirate.”

\--

The man in the cell can’t be much older than Bren. Younger, probably, though it’s hard to tell under the scruffy facial hair and the bruises and bloody wounds. “He was found spreading Zemnian seditionist literature,” mutters Ikithon to Da’leth, both of them watching the man through the floor-to-ceiling scrying mirror in Da’leth’s study. Bren hangs back, squashing the panic fluttering in his chest like a wounded bird. “There was another accomplice, but she got away.”

Da’leth grunts, arms folded over his chest. “Have your Volstrucker interrogated him yet?”

“Not yet. I thought you would like to see.”

“Hrm.” Da’leth smiles wryly. “Proceed, then.”

Raising a hand, Ikithon traces symbols through the air. “Astrid, dear,” he says. “Please have a chat with our prisoner.”

The mages watch the man in the mirror as he sits unmoving in the chair, held upright by thick leather straps. “Do you have a copy of the materials he was distributing?” says Da’leth.

From a pocket in his robes, Ikithon produces what looks like a small card or pamphlet and hands it to Da’leth. Eyebrows raised, Da’leth takes it and looks it over before tossing the card onto the side table next to him.

In the mirror, the cell door opens and Astrid steps in, dressed head to toe in black, expression hard and blank as marble. Slowly, the captive man looks up at her. “What’s your name?” she says, voice as clear through the mirror as if Bren was standing beside her.

The man spits at her.

Astrid does not flinch back, but instead regards him coolly. “My name is Astrid,” she says. “Let’s try this again. Was ist Ihre Name?”

“Ich werde Ihnen nichts sagen,” snarls the man. Despite his defiant words, his voice shakes, and his eyes are wide and glassy. He’s afraid, Bren realizes. He’s terrified.

Da’leth watches with his mouth in a flat line; Bren wonders if he understands what they’re saying. If he doesn’t know Zemnian, he probably has a ring or trinket on him that does the job. “Is she using _Detect Thoughts_?”

“Of course.”

Astrid continues her questioning in a flat tone, in contrast to the rising panic in the man’s denials. Both mages are entirely engrossed in the process, and Bren edges towards the table where Da’leth tossed the seditionist paper. When neither of the men react to him, he picks it up.

It is just a card, made of a thick, stiff paper, woodblock printed on both sides. The front bears an image of a man, woman, and two crying children, struggling under the weight of the massive throne they bear. An owl perches on top of the throne, glaring down at them. WIR WERDEN ZERQUETSCHT, it reads across the top. _WE ARE BEING CRUSHED_. The back side lists out several bullet points:

  * WIESO sollten unsere Söhne zum Krieg geschickt? ( _WHEREFORE should our sons be sent off to war?)_
  * WIESO sollten unsere Töchter zu Müttern mehr Soldaten gemacht werden? ( _WHEREFORE should our daughters be made mothers of more soldiers?_ )
  * WIESO sollte unseren Schweiß und Mühsal den Rest des Reichs füttern? ( _WHEREFORE_ _should our sweat and toil feed the rest of the Empire?_ )
  * WIESO sollte unseren Erbschaft gelöscht werden? ( _WHEREFORE should our heritage be erased?_ )
  * WIESO sollte unseren Leben der Krone gehören? ( _WHEREFORE should our lives belong to the Crown?_ )



Bren stares at it, only distantly hearing Astrid and the man. As he sets the card back down on the table, he notices his fingers faintly shaking.

The captive Zemnian now is crying now, pleading for his family’s life, and a strange anger surges up in Bren. Astrid hasn’t even touched him, and he’s breaking already? Weak.

“Where there’s one, there’s more,” murmurs Da’leth. “We need to dig out the entire rat’s nest before they turn on us.”

Sighing heavily, Ikithon sits down, still facing the mirror. “We’ll flush them out,” he says. “Me and my terriers.”

Da’leth glances over at Bren, who keeps his face carefully blank. “Indeed.”

\--

“Hey,” says Fjord, tapping on Beau’s half-open door. “Knock-knock.”

Beau looks up at him disbelievingly from the floor, where she sits stretching out her hamstrings, folded over at the waist with her legs out straight. “Did you just say ‘knock-knock’?”

Ignoring this, Fjord enters the room, leaning against the wall by the door. “You’ve been researching the eyes of Uk’atoa, right?”

Slowly, Beau sits up, her angled blue eyes traveling over Fjord. “Yeah,” she says, warily. “Why?”

“So I’ve got one,” says Fjord, ticking off his fingers. “Plank King has another. But in the paintings under the temple, the serpent had three eyes. Three. Which makes me think there’s another crystal out there.”

“Probably, yeah.” Beau crosses her legs, tucking her feet under her. “I don’t know where, though.”

That’s all Fjord needs to hear. “Well, c’mon then, don’t just sit there, let’s go find out.”

“Go _where_?” says Beau, still seated, and frowning.

“One of your Cobalt Soul archives, there’s one in Rexxentrum, right?” says Fjord. “Research. Y’know. _Books_.” He heads towards the door.

Scrambling to her feet, Beau says, “Wait wait wait, hold on.” There’s a hint of panic in her expression. “Now?”

“Yeah, now.” Fjord frowns down at her. “Why, there a problem with that?”

“Wh– no, no problem, no problem at all.” Clearing her throat, Beau folds her arms and stares up at Fjord. “They’re just not open right now. I’ll go tomorrow.”

Fjord squints out the window through which morning sun shines bright and clear. “All right, sure. We’ll go tomorrow.”

“ _I’ll_ go tomorrow. You’re not allowed in.” Folding her arms, Beau hunches her shoulders defensively. “All right?”

In a flash, Fjord understands, and he stiffens, lifting his chin. “You mean, you don’t want to be seen with a half-orc,” he says. “Got it.”

“What? _No_ ,” protests Beau. “No, man, it’s not some racist thing, the Cobalt Soul just doesn’t like outsiders –”

“Yeah,” says Fjord. “Uh-huh. Let me know how your research goes.” And he turns to leave again.

Beau gets in between him and the door, one arm barring his exit, and her shoulders drop in defeat. “Fjord,” she says. “It’s not you. It’s…” She groans, slumping further. “Igotkickedoutofthecobaltsoul,” she mutters.

“What?”

“I got fucking kicked out of the fucking Cobalt Soul,” snaps Beau, glaring up at Fjord. “I’m not an Expositor. I’m not even allowed back in their libraries anymore. Okay? Happy?”

Fjord frowns, processing this. “You got kicked out? Why?”

Affecting a dry, upper-crust accent, Beau says, “‘For a long history of infractions and a certain unwillingness to abide by the laws and statutes of the Cobalt Soul –’”

“Yeah, yeah, got it,” mutters Fjord. “They let you keep the robes?”

Beau grimaces. “Well, okay, technically I snuck out before they officially expelled me, but I knew they were going to. But _listen_.” She grabs the front of Fjord’s vest. “I’ve been on this Uk’atoa thing for months, even before they kicked me out, and none of them paid any attention to me –”

“And so that’s when you went after me,” realizes Fjord.

“– so _yes_ , we need to find the third eye, but Cobalt Reserve can’t help me, and even if they could, they wouldn’t.” She thumps her fist on Fjord’s chest for emphasis before stepping back, head tilted in cool appraisal, eyes lidded. “So you got any other ideas, Captain Fjord?”

Ages ago, Fjord was at a tavern in Nicodranus, about to hand over the eye to a halfling in exchange for a sack of gold. Caleb was there too, and Fjord forces back the memory of Caleb’s hand on his wrist, his face close to Fjord’s. “Yeah,” says Fjord. “Yeah, I got an idea. You know where Jester is?”

“Over at the stables, I think.” Beau narrows her eyes. “The Gentleman?”

“Yup.” Fjord strides back into the hallway and down the hall, descends the stairs, and exits the tavern with Beau alongside him. The stable they’re keeping their horses at is about a ten minutes’ walk, and despite the cold air, the sun is pleasant. Nervous energy hums through Fjord, and he itches to summon the falchion. Just to hold it. He’d get strange looks from the passerby though.

He finds both Jester and Caduceus at the stable, petting their horses and feeding them handfuls of oats. “You know they feed them here, right?” says Fjord, approaching.

Jester sticks her tongue out at him as one of the carriage horses lips up oats out of her flat palm. “Hiya,” says Caduceus, scratching the forehead of the shaggy draft horse the Gentleman lent to him. Bluud watches them from off to the side, sitting on a haybale and placidly munching an apple.

“Jester,” says Fjord. “I need you to send a message to your dad.”

Normally she lights up at the mention of the Gentleman; something in Fjord’s tone must put her off, because Jester frowns at him, wiping her palms on her skirt. “Why?” she says slowly.

“I need to know if he can find another one of these.” Fjord appears the falchion, seawater spraying and instantly freezing on the cobblestones, and points to the crystal in the pommel. “The orbs. I know there’s a market for them out there. He must know if someone’s sellin’.”

Crossing her ankles, Jester leans back against the stable door, the horse nudging at her shoulder. She looks up at the sky, and as she does, her eyes flare a verdant green. “Hi, Dad!” she says. “Fjord wanted me to ask you if you know if anyone’s selling one of those Eye of Uk’atoa crystals, or if someone has –” She stops short, nose wrinkling in frustration, then tilts her head to listen.

“Well?” demands Fjord. “What’s he say?”

Jester’s gaze refocuses on Fjord curiously. “He says he might, but he wants to know why you’re interested.” Both Beau and Caduceus are watching him intently too.

Fjord clears his throat, putting the falchion away. “I need it to save Caleb,” he says steadily.

“He needs it to save Caleb,” Jester repeats, eyes green again. “What are you doing right now? What’s the weather like? We had tons of snow here but now it’s really not so bad –” She pauses again for the Gentleman’s response. “He says he has an idea,” and she smiles at Fjord.

 _GROW_.

“Really?” manages Fjord. “Where is it?”

Wrinkling her nose, Jester says, “He wants to talk to you in person. In Zadash. He doesn’t like to discuss sensitive things like that over magic.” She rolls her eyes.

Zadash. That’s days away, if not longer, and impatience burns in Fjord’s chest. “You sure?” he demands.

“Yup.” She pops the _p_ , regarding him steadily as the horse rubs its head vigorously against her shoulder, scratching an itch. “It’s how he does business.”

Fjord does math, subtracting time taken to go to Zadash and back against further damage done to Caleb. “I’ll go faster if I’m traveling alone,” he decides. “You and the others, you’re fine staying in Zadash?”

“I mean, I’ll ask Molly,” says Caduceus, glancing around as if Molly might suddenly stride out from around the corner. “I got no problem with whatever he wants.”

“I think most people would rather stay here than go traveling across the Empire in the middle of winter,” says Jester.

Fjord’s breath clouds in the air as he exhales sharply. “Right,” he says. “Right. I’ll tell the others. I’m leavin’ immediately.”

\--

Sitting on the floor of his room, the moon watching him through the window, Bren lights his fingers on fire and watches himself burn.

It doesn’t hurt all that much, nor does he actually burn in the typical sense of the word. The flames lick over his skin, leaving a shimmer of pain and a flush behind. As Bren slowly turns his hand, the golden tongues dance to always remain upright, flickering and wavering as sparks snap and swirl into the air.

He suspects it’s the residuum in his blood that keeps his skin from melting away. From the insertion site just below his elbow, the orange-red crystals spread out like scales, running along the blade of his forearm and beginning to reach for his wrist. They’ve grown on his left arm too, though not as progressed, and the crystals on his collarbone have wrapped around to creep up the back of his neck.

The rapid growth of the first couple months after insertion seems to have slowed, though not stopped entirely. Bren supposes that if he lives long enough, eventually they will cover his entire body. Maybe he’ll burn up then, consumed by magical fire.

It’s a tempting prospect.

Darkness surrounding him, Bren stares at the red-gold flames on his fingers and tries to think of nothing at all.

\--

Chilled to the bone under his damp cloak, spattered to the thigh in slush and mud, snow rapidly melting on his shoulders and hair, Fjord hurries down the stairs to the Evening Nip, strides past the many tables and chairs, and walks right up in front of the Gentleman, who looks up with surprise at the travel-worn half-orc in front of him. “I heard you know where I can get another one of these,” says Fjord, and thumps the falchion down on the table. The yellow eye glitters and winks in the light of the oil lamps.

Eyebrow raised, the Gentleman looks down at the orb and then up at Fjord, thumb and forefinger tracing his inky goatee. “Yes,” he says, a smile slowly curling at the corner of his mouth. “I believe I do. Why don’t you and I have a discussion?”

Fjord nods, stoic, but inside him a dark hunger opens its maw, swallowing him up from head to toe and leaving only one, determined thought.

 _CONSUME_.


	15. Act III, Scene 3

In his dream, Bren is on the _Tide’s Breath_ again. The planks creak under his feet with the strain of holding a burning ship together, and the air is so thick with smoke and embers he can barely breathe. Pacing a slow circle, he looks around for anyone else, but he’s alone.

He’s had this dream before, hasn’t he? Bren frowns, pausing, flames crackling all round. He’s dreamt of this ship before. And in his previous dreams, there was…

The smoke clears, revealing the half-orc. He stumbles towards Bren, dark brows knitted. “Caleb?” he says. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but… I’m gonna get you out, okay? Just hang in there.”

Hang in where? Bren wants to say, looking around. Get me out of where? Off this ship? He turns back to the half-orc – Fjord, that’s his name, and he means something to Bren, doesn’t he?

No. He means something to _Caleb_.

“Fjord,” gasps Caleb, fighting the smoke in his throat and the burning of his skin, “please, I –”

Fjord’s eyes gleam golden in the firelight. “I’ll get you, I promise,” he says, low and intent, and reaches for Caleb. “I’m coming for you –”

\--

Fjord wakes with a gasp, sweat filming on his skin, and for a moment he swears he can still see the fiery ship and Caleb standing in front of him, desperation etched on his face. Then those images fade into the darkness of his room at the Evening Nip.

Groaning, Fjord sits up and rubs a hand over his face. His throat is as parched as if he were actually on the burning ship. Reaching for the pitcher of water on the nightstand, he pours himself a glass and drinks slowly. 

He knows these are just dreams, but gods, they feel so real sometimes, he wonders if he isn’t making some sort of connection with Caleb, somehow. Stranger things have happened. Maybe he should ask Caduceus about it when he gets back to Rexxentrum. Or Molly. Maybe those cards of his will turn up an answer.

The Gentleman gave him the job, details and all. Come morning light Fjord is heading back to Rexxentrum, and from there the road to Shadycreek Run.

It’s a long road, and Fjord needs to run it fast and hard. He wills himself back to sleep. And when he dreams again, this time his dreams are vague and unformed, featuring only dark, endless water and a great yellow eye.

\--

Bren does his best to hide his uneasiness as he follows Astrid into the depths of the Claykeep Prison, although from the glances she keeps darting in his direction he’s sure she knows anyway. The dark stone walls and windowless passages remind him uncomfortably of time spent in the depths of the Sanatorium, though the memories are vague. Bren keeps them that way, focusing instead on the brisk sound of Astrid’s boots on the floor and her narrow shoulders in front of him.

The Imperial sergeant accompanying them stops at the iron-bound door labelled _52_. “This one, ma’am,” he says, and sets the lantern he’s carrying on a bracket in the wall. He takes a heavy baton from his belt and bangs it against the door a few times before sliding open the metal hatch at eye level. Peering in, he grunts, and then unhooks a large key from his belt.

The hinges grind as the sergeant opens the door, and Astrid and Bren step in. The woman sitting in the cell raises her head wearily, grey-streaked hair tangled, grime streaked on her face. Bren goes cold, making the residuum crystals feel even warmer. He doesn’t know _why_ he goes cold. He doesn’t even know who she is.

Although that’s not saying much.

While Bren struggles not to fall into the holes in his head, Astrid approaches the woman. The cell door clangs, shutting the three of them in. “Good morning,” says Astrid, in Zemnian. She keeps her hands behind her back, her long black coat buttoned up to her neck. “Maria Altottin?” 

“So,” rasps Maria, in the same language, “they’ve turned you traitor to your people, have they?”

Astrid raises a knife-like eyebrow, the rest of her face as still as a mask. “I am not the one arrested under charges of sedition.”

Letting out a hoarse laugh that turns into a cough, Maria leans her head back against the cell wall. “They have trained you well, haven’t they,” she murmurs. She glances over at Bren. “What about you?” she says. “Are you eating out of the Empire’s hand too?”

It takes Bren a second to clear his throat, swallowing down the embers. “I am not the enemy you think I am,” he says quietly.

“Yes, you are. You all are.” Maria’s voice is as dry as ash, and the shadows on her throat look like bruises. “Get out. I have nothing to say to you.”

Slowly, Astrid steps forward, her boot heels echoing in the cell. “Think carefully before you make rash decisions, Maria,” she whispers. “You don’t have to die here. You can see your children again. I just need to know some names.”

“Some names?” Maria glares at Astrid, indignation heating her voice. “You mean the names of the young men I sheltered? They _are_ my children. They are _all_ my children. Every single Zemnian who struggles under the weight of the Crown is my child –”

“But not us,” says Bren. He keeps his voice steady despite the angry flames licking at his tongue. “Am I correct?”

From under her tangled hair, Maria levels a flat stare at Bren. “You turned your back on us –”

Anger flares in Bren and he crosses to kneel in front of Maria, grabbing her by the throat. “You have _no idea_ ,” he hisses, the residuum heating his veins. “You speak of weight, you know nothing of what I’ve been through –”

“Bren,” says Astrid quietly.

Maria gasps and winces, trying to tilt her head back from Bren’s hand. “I did what I had to survive,” growls Bren. “You have no right –”

“ _Bren._ ”

Astrid’s fingers close around his wrist so tight she forces his grip to release. A red-raw handprint stands on Maria’s neck, and the sleeve of Bren’s coat singes where it touches the residuum. Swallowing hard, Bren draws his burning hand back and withdraws. “Sorry,” he mutters. He can’t look Maria in the eye. He can’t look Astrid in the eye. He stumbles back against the far wall, breathing hard and trying to quell the flames inside him.

Astrid says something to Maria that he can’t quite make out, and then she raps sharply on the cell door three times. The hatch opens, closes, then the door grinds on its hinges again and Astrid grabs Bren by the elbow and pulls him out with her.

Not until after the sergeant has walked them out of the prison and left them in the teleportation room does Astrid speak. “So,” she says, crouching to draw on the floor with magic chalk. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” says Bren, which is the truth. He stares down at his hand. The heat has long since faded. “It just sort of happened.”

Pausing, Astrid looks up at Bren. “Do you remember how you got to the Sanatorium, the first time you left us?”

Does he? The thought pushes uncomfortably on Bren’s mind, and he decides not to pursue it. “No.”

Her brilliant green eyes regard him unwaveringly. “We took you there,” she says. Voice even, unemotional. “You had a breaking point and understandably began to lash out. Part of that same spark that was seen in you could create a lot of sparks everywhere else.”

She pulls down her collar, on the other side from the crystals. Rough pinkish-red burn scars cover the side of her neck. “It was for your own good. We took care of you. And we brought you there. But we had to subdue you first. You were too dangerous to us and to yourself.”

Dangerous. Bren pushes his sleeve up and turns his hand over, watching the light glimmer on the residuum. “I was there a long time,” he murmurs.

“Yes.” She continues to watch him, maybe waiting for an answer, but when Bren gives none she returns to her chalk drawing. In sharp, sure strokes she marks down the runes, the blue chalk glimmering faintly.

Clenching his fist, Bren holds his hands behind his back. “I hurt you,” he says quietly.

Astrid stills, her back to him. “Don’t, Bren.” An edge mars her dispassionate voice.

He has nothing else to say anyway. Falling silent, Bren stands still and watches Astrid mark out the symbols that will take them home.

\--

“So,” says Fjord, spreading the map of the Empire out on the table. Outside of the inn room, the evening shrieks with the revelry of Hupperdook. “Here’s the road out of the Empire up to Shady Creek Run.” He glances up at the dwarf woman sitting next to Beau, sent by the Gentleman to work with them. “You sure Lorenzo will be takin’ this route?”

Keg nods, rolling a cigarette between her teeth. “The ground’s too bad up there, especially in winter. He’ll have to stick to the roads if he doesn’t want to lose his wagons.”

With charcoal, Fjord marks out a straight line connecting two points of the curve of the road. “Great. We’ve got horses, we can travel rough and fast. We cut across here and beat Lorenzo, set up an ambush for him.”

Staring down at the map, Molly flips two tarot cards between his fingers, over and over and over. “Remind me again why we’re ambushing him?”

“Way I see it, two things happen.” Fjord braces his hands on the table, looking around at his crew. Their attentiveness, from the sharp gleam in Beau’s eyes to Yasha’s steady regard to Caduceus trying his best, satisfies something in Fjord, deep down. _So this is what it’s like to be a captain._ “Scenario one, Lorenzo has the orb on him, and we grab it right then and there. No need to trek all the way up to Shady Creek Run. Scenario two, he don’t have it, but we off him and his gang so they ain’t a problem when we get into this – what was it again? Sour Nest?”

Chewing on her cigarette, Keg nods.

“Splendid,” says Molly. _Thwip_ go the cards through his clawed fingers. “I love a good plan.”

Nott stands up on her chair so she can see the map. “What kind of ambush were you thinking?”

Considering the map, Fjord says, “Well, we’ll have to scout out a location, but I’m thinkin’ get a tree across the road. Block their wagons, hit ‘em fast while they’re trapped. Snow won’t make it any easier.”

Beau’s eyes glitter as she appraises the map. “Who’re we up against, Keg?”

“I think the main –” Keg sighs, rubbing her stubbled jaw. “The main person to worry about – so first of all, Protto is the lookout. Disabling him, maybe, if you guys are trying to be stealthy, would be helpful because he’s got –”

“Hang on,” says Fjord. “You say Protto?”

“Yeah, why?”

Once again, Fjord remembers trying to sell the orb to a scrawny halfling with a terrible goatee. “Nothin’. Just another point in favor of Lorenzo havin’ an orb. He was lookin’ to buy a while back.” He nods to Keg. “Carry on.”

“Dwelma is the creepiest and the craziest, she’s the half-orc. Druid.” Nott hisses between her teeth, and Keg says, “Yeah, she’s pretty gnarly. I mean, they’re all pretty awful to be honest. Then Ruzza, half-elf, she’s a sorcerer, worth her weight. Chances are he’ll have Wohn with him too, she’s another hard hitter.”

“Just five?” says Fjord. “And there’s…” He does a quick headcount. “Bluud, you in?”

The minotaur grunts from his seat in the corner, dark eyes glittering. “I protect Jester,” he rumbles. Jester beams at him.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” says Fjord. “Right, so that’s five of them and nine of us. I think we got a pretty good chance.”

Keg eyes him warily. “I wouldn’t be too sure. I used to – I used to work for them, Lorenzo has some tricks up his sleeve. Plus that’s just the main crew, I don’t know who else he’ll bring with him. He only makes a couple runs during winter, so they’re pretty big.”

“Lucky one is happening right now,” says Yasha.

Grinning, Molly flips a card and points it at her. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” he says. “This is _destiny_.” Beau snorts.

Annoyance and curiosity war in Fjord. “Will you put down those damn cards?” he says. “What’s even on them, anyway?”

Molly grins, the cards disappearing into his hand. “Wouldn’t _you_ like to know.”

“You should do a reading!” says Jester. “To see how our plan will go.”

Fjord rolls his eyes, but Nott and Caduceus’ ears both perk up, and Beau raises an interested eyebrow. Before Fjord can protest, Molly sweeps the map aside and produces his deck, shuffling them with a flourish. “Really?” demands Fjord. “We’re talkin’ strategy, you’re just gonna interrupt to deal some cards?”

“This _is_ strategy.” Molly lays the cards out in a pattern, a three-by-three cross with another card in the center, and then another four cards along the side. “Knowing what will happen in the future is a _very_ strategic advantage.”

He begins flipping cards over, reading as he goes. “Current situation, five of cups, reversed. Recognition of something valuable – well, I’d say we recognize there’s value in what we’re taking. Queen of cups in the problem spot, that’s interesting. I’d say there’s a woman of great power causing us difficulties. Past, king of swords, _also_ interesting, a reference to your pirate past?” He winks at Fjord. “Future, three of cups, I think we’re going to be quite coordinated with this ambush.”

Turning over the card at the top of the cross, he clicks his tongue. “Now we’ve got the eight of wands, reversed, in the ego spot. That’s _very_ interesting. Generally this card points to delays or plans lacking thought, which makes me think ego might be causing an issue with our plans. Subconscious – the Devil, reversed. Sign of deliverance from bondage. Makes perfect sense. All you want is to free Caleb, right?”

Eyes on the cards, Fjord nods slowly. This is all bullshit, he tells himself, but it makes more sense than it should for just random cards.

Molly moves on to the final four cards. “Advice – queen of pentacles, reversed. My, there sure are a lot of royals in this spread, aren’t there? Powerful pieces on the board. I think maybe we ought to be watching out for that druid. External factors – the World, turned upside down. Heh.” Molly’s lip curls over one white fang. “Now ain’t that the truth. Hopes and fears – six of wands. Victory. I think we all hope for that. And final outcome…”

As he turns the card over, Molly’s voice trails off. Fjord peers at the picture on the card, a rider in black armor on a white horse, the sun rising behind him. “Molly?” says Jester. “What’s that card?”

Slowly, Molly picks the card up and turns it slowly, eyeing it. “Death,” he says softly.

“Lorenzo’s, I presume,” says Fjord, speaking lightly despite the chill down his spine. “Now come on, let’s put the cards away and figure out exactly what we’re doin’.”

“Is that bad?” says Jester, frowning. “The Death card?”

Keg looks unnerved. “Uh, yeah, it’s _Death_.”

“Death can be many things.” Caduceus regards Molly with curious intent as the tiefling thoughtfully packs his cards away in a leather pouch. “An ending, but also a beginning.”

“Like you, Molly,” says Yasha.

Molly grunts, with the ghost of a smile for her. Rolling out the map, Fjord resumes the planning, but it doesn’t escape him how quiet Molly stays for the rest of the evening. Maybe I should ask him about it, he thinks, as they eventually break to go to sleep. Maybe Molly knows something I don’t. But to treat it seriously would be putting an awful lot of credence in a fortune teller’s trick…

He frowns after Molly as he goes down the hallway to his room with Caduceus. “Hey, Molly,” he says, and they both stop and turn back towards him. “Where’d you pick up these cards? Don’t recall you havin’ them when you were on the _Tide’s Breath_.”

“Ah, that’s because I didn’t flash them about, did I?” says Molly wryly. “Pirates are a superstitious lot. Got enough funny looks for having horns and a tail, didn’t exactly want to label myself as a dealer in the occult.”

Fjord blinks. “I wouldn’t – I wouldn’t have let that happen, not on my ship,” he says.

“Is that so?” Molly raises an eyebrow. “And yet you’re half a sentence away from saying these cards are just a bit of flash and lies yourself.”

Caught with no answer, Fjord shrugs. “You ain’t wrong,” he says evenly. “No offence.”

Molly lifts his jaw and grins, appraising Fjord. “None taken.”

\--

The caravan of wagons toils its way up the road, dark shapes among the flurries of snow. Fjord exhales slowly from his hiding position behind the road bank, a frosty cloud leaving his lips. At his side, Beau flexes her grip on her staff. “You ready?” she mutters.

“Yeah.” The hilt of the falchion nestles secure in Fjord’s palm. He looks down along to the next embankment where Molly, Caduceus, and Yasha crouch behind cover, then across the road to where the dead tree looms over the road, trunk iron-gray and thick as a pillar. He can’t see them, but he knows Bluud, Jester, Keg, and Nott lay in wait behind the swell of earth.

Each pound of Fjord’s pulse is distinct, adrenaline sharpening his senses until he can taste the cold, can feel each snowflake land, can hear Beau’s breathing as clearly as his own heart. A deep, magnetic thrum seems to emanate from the train of wagons drawing towards them. Fjord’s nerves buzz with the urge to leap up and chase towards it and claim the orb…

Fjord lets out another slow breath. Not yet, he promises himself. Not just yet.

As the wagons grow closer still, Fjord can start making out individuals. A giant of a man, riding a massive black horse. Several other burly men and women, mounted and armed to the teeth. A half-orc with long, mossy hair driving one wagon, a blonde half-elf in leathers driving another. And even more behind them –

“That’s a lot more than five,” mutters Beau. “Ten?”

“Maybe,” grunts Fjord. Doesn’t matter. They can still take them.

The wagons get closer and closer. The man in front must be Lorenzo, bald and hulking with tattoos all along the side of his face, a ragged fur cloak swathed around him, a long glaive in his hand, and a dark gaze that surveys the landscape around him. Fjord ducks down behind the embankment, snowflakes gathering around him and turning to ice on his armor. Any minute now, Bluud will put his shoulder to the dead tree and –

_CRASH!_

Fjord leaps up as the tree comes crashing down in front of the first wagon, shattering the hitches. The two horses squeal and rear, bolting, as Lorenzo yanks his beast’s head around. Others in the party shout, someone yelling, “Boss, what is –”

“Ambush!” roars Lorenzo. “Ring up –”

Fjord points his falchion at Lorenzo and the eldritch blast hits him square in the chest.

Roaring, Lorenzo falls back in his saddle, just as Nott sprints by and splashes oil on him before darting up onto one of the carts. As Fjord charges over the embankment, falchion in hand, Beau uses her staff to vault over and strike at the druid half-orc, Bluud rushing forward and roaring, Yasha brandishing her sword with a war cry –

Sliding down the snowbank, Fjord slashes along the calves of one of the thugs, making him drop with a howl. Purple dances in the corner of his eye as Molly leaps into the scrum, blood arcing from the upward slice of his sword, and green light flashes as Jester sends a magic bolt at the druid.

Fjord lunges up just shy of the dinner plate-sized hooves of Lorenzo’s horse, the corners of its mouth dripping bloody foam as Lorenzo saws on the reins. As Fjord scores through the saddle girth, the horse screams and rears, Lorenzo tumbling to the ground with the saddle.

Darkness rushes in the corner of Fjord’s eye and he ducks out of the way just as a thug swings an iron-studded club at Fjord’s head. Flipping the falchion, Fjord stabs backhanded into the thug, jamming the blade into his gut.

“Clear out!” roars Lorenzo, sweeping his glaive in a circle. As he does, a flurry of freezing wind and snow swirls around him and blasts outwards, stinging ice striking Fjord in the face. The wounded thug howls and stumbles, and Nott shrieks from the cart. Shouting and blows and sparks of magic fill the air, snow in the air blowing across the grappling figures.

Growling, Fjord swings around as the blonde half-elf climbs on top of the closest wagon and chants, melodic and eerie. Colors swim in Fjord’s vision and he staggers, mesmerized by the swirling patterns…

The pain of a blade striking Fjord in the ribs jolts him back to reality, ice crystallizing around him. Lorenzo’s glaive sinks deep into his side, Lorenzo grinning at him with two gold teeth, his coat dripping with oil. “Nice try,” he drawls, before yanking the weapon free.

Crimson blood splatters across the white snow as Fjord drops to his knees, clutching his side. Lorenzo raises the glaive up for another swing, and Fjord fumbles for the falchion, glaring up at him –

Yelling hoarsely, Beau leaps forward, her fist connecting with Lorenzo’s temple. With his off arm, Lorenzo catches Beau and hurls her six feet away from him, Beau skidding across the frozen ground. Whirling to face her, Lorenzo doesn’t see Molly vault over the cart and slash his scimitar up Lorenzo’s back.

“Enough!” roars Lorenzo, spinning back towards Molly. His glaive sweeps within an inch of Molly, who laughs and staggers back, multiple arrows sticking out of his bloody torso. Eyes blurring, pain stabbing through his torso, Fjord catches a glimpse of Keg crouching beside the wagon.

Managing a sword twirl, Molly shouts in an infernal tongue and staggers towards Lorenzo. Angry welts rise on Lorenzo’s skin, but the curse drops Molly to his knees, clutching his chest and gasping. Snowflakes swirl around them as Lorenzo steps forward, glaive raised, and Molly glares up at him –

“Enough,” growls Lorenzo, and drives his blade through Molly’s sternum.

“ _NO!”_ roars Beau, scrabbling to her feet. Fighting off a wave of pain, Fjord can only stare as Molly grabs the pole of the glaive and looks up at Lorenzo with a grin full of blood, his thoughts echoing Beau’s yell.

Lorenzo leans forward and pulls Molly closer, face close to his. “Any last words?” he growls.

Trembling with effort, Molly spits blood into Lorenzo’s face.

A grin spreads across Lorenzo’s face. “Respect,” he says, and twists the glaive with an audible crunch of cracking bone.

Growling, Fjord manages to grasp the falchion and climb to his knees as Molly collapses, prone. A crossbow bolt whizzes by him that he barely registers. Lorenzo turns towards Fjord, and yanks the glaive free, Molly’s blood dripping off it. “Is it time for another, or have you learned your lesson?” he says with a grin.

The call of the orb hums through Fjord, a deep voice ordering him to _KILL._ Blood drips from his side to steam in the snow. He staggers to his feet, glaring at Lorenzo.

Lorenzo’s grin widens, bloody spit running down his face. “Then another life it is.”

With a roar, Bluud slams into the side of a wagon, wood splintering around him. Jester screams and runs after him but the druid shoots vines out after her, wrapping around her legs, and Jester snarls and blasts her with a sunburst of divine light. The barbarian woman swings her warhammer at Caduceus, missing only because Yasha yanks him out of the way, his horrified gaze fixed on Molly’s body…

“Stop!” yells Keg, armor clanking as she runs up in between Lorenzo and Fjord. “Stop! Make me the example. Stop. Just stop attacking them.”

Lorenzo stares down at her. Behind him, Beau runs forward and strikes sparks off a tinderbox, catching his cloak on fire. Orange flames curl up and over Lorenzo’s back, but he doesn’t flinch. “You say you want to be an example, huh?”

Gulping, Keg nods.

The gleaming blade slices through the air and separates her head from her body.

A pulse vibrates through Fjord in tune with his heartbeat, calling to Fjord. His vision blackens at the edges, blood dripping through his fingers, and he staggers towards the still-burning Lorenzo.

_OBEY._

The blackness constricts, until all Fjord can see is the yellow glow of flames. “We’re moving out,” he hears Lorenzo rumble, through a heaviness like rushing water. “If I see any of your faces again –” He chuckles. “Well, at least you’ll be able to see your friend on the other side.”

 _CONSUME_.

Groaning, pain throbbing through him, Fjord takes a step forward, and then collapses into the snow as the darkness takes him.


	16. Act III, Scene 4

“Caduceus,” rasps Beau, circles under her eyes. “He’s gone, okay? He’s gone. Put the body down.”

Ears pinned back, Caduceus glares at her, clutching Molly’s body to his chest. “ _No._ ”

Molly’s arm hangs limply, knuckles hitting the floorboards of the wagon they salvaged from the Iron Shepherds. The furry black bulk of Bluud fills the rest of the wagon, Jester curled up miserably next to him. She puts a hand on Caduceus’ shoulder that he doesn’t notice.

A pounding ache in his healing side, Fjord sighs and finishes hitching the horses to the makeshift wagon axle, hoping his sailor knots and Jester’s mending spells will hold. With Bluud too injured to walk long distances, they need the wagon, but impatience gnaws at Fjord. More time until they reach Lorenzo. More time until he gets the orb. More time until he rescues Caleb. 

“He’s dead,” says Nott, voice cracking. She has to jump and catch onto the tailgate of the wagon to haul herself up, and tugs on Caduceus’ sleeve. “He’s _dead_ , you need to leave him –”

She points at the double grave where Keg already lies, displaced dirt pile high beside it. Caduceus makes a feral sound of grief and pulls Molly’s body even closer.

Sniffling, Jester says gently, “It’s okay, you know. It’s okay to be sad. But we can’t – we can’t take him with us…”

Caduceus curls in around the body, shoulders hunching. “Not yet,” he mutters.

“Come on, man,” urges Beau, “we gotta get going –”

The voices of the three women overlap, cajoling and demanding, and frustration rises like the tide in Fjord while Bluud snores in his opiate-induced sleep. If Caduceus wants to hang on to the body, if it gives him some scrap of comfort, who cares, all they’re doing is waste time –

“Leave him alone,” snaps Fjord, wheeling around. “It’s cold enough, the body’ll keep for a day or two. Now fill in that hole and let’s go.”

Beau gives him an odd look. “Are you sure?”

“Damn sure. Captain’s orders.” Fjord glares at her until she slouches over to pick up the shovel, then strides farther up the road until he reaches Yasha.

Her cloak ragged as a raven wing, Yasha stands on a small ridge, snow coating the ground around her. As Fjord steps up beside her, she continues gazing out across the distance, tears tracing black lines through the kohl surrounding her eyes. Fury and grief etch lines in her marble face. “We let them go,” she says quietly.

Fjord squints out in the same direction she is, towards Shady Creek Run. The wind tugs on his black cloak. “You didn’t have to.”

“They were beating us. And you were dying.” She glances down at the bandages visible under Fjord’s leather armor. “I don’t know why they left us alone.”

“Because Lorenzo’s a cocky son of a bitch, that’s why.” His voice echoes in Fjord’s mind, _Then another life it is._ “Probably didn’t see the point in sticking around to fight when he had a convoy to move.”

Yasha grunts. Her eyelashes are white with frozen tears.

“We’ll make them pay,” Fjord promises her. “Every single one of ‘em.”

Inhaling slowly, Yasha says, “Yes,” as cold and steely as her blade.

Fjord puts a hand on her shoulder, letting it rest there for a moment. “We’re headin’ out.”

Unwavering, Yasha nods. Fjord turns and strides back down the ridge, rejoining his crew. Grabbing Shelby’s reins, he puts his foot in the stirrup and swings into the saddle. “All right!” calls Fjord, gathering the reins and turning Shelby in a tight circle. “Move out!”

And with a creaking of wheels and snorting of horses, they do.

\--

“They’re like cockroaches,” mutters Ikithon, pacing the study with his hands behind his back. “As soon as I crush one rebellious cell, another pops up…”

From behind his desk, Da’leth glances irritably at him. The lines around his mouth have become more pronounced than when Bren saw him last, dark smudges under his eyes. “The Xhorhasian aggression is escalating, I am doing all I can to keep war from erupting before we are ready,” he snaps. “I don’t have time for your pet project.”

Ikithon rounds on him, eyes snapping. “When they rise up against the Crown when we are at our must vulnerable because _you_ didn’t take the threat seriously –”

Like he does so often when he accompanies Ikithon to Da’leth’s mansion, Bren stands very still and silent against the wall and pretends he doesn’t exist. It usually works. Both wizards ignore him. “What do you want from me?” says Da’leth flatly.

“Authorization for the Volstruckers to go into the Zemni Fields and start interrogating residents.”

Da’leth blinks at him. “Haven’t you been doing that already?”

“We’ve been questioning insurgents as they get arrested, but that’s not enough,” says Ikithon irritably. “We’re finding them after the crime, after they’ve gotten established. I need to nip this off in the bud. I would also like authorization to bring detainees back to Vergessen for questioning, rather than the Claykeep.”

Tapping his pen on the desk, Da’leth looks skeptically up at Ikithon. “What is it you need, then? A royal writ? Money?”

“Whatever you can get me.”

Bren pictures masked, grey-clad Volstrucker striding through Blumenthal, kicking open doors and yanking townsfolk out of their homes. Buildings burn, smoke and orange flames filling the air. Smoke fills his mouth, his nose, and he hears screams –

“Bren?” says Ikithon sharply. Both mages watch him warily.

Under their appraisal, anger burns like embers inside Bren. He jerks his chin up, face carefully blank. “Sir?” Only then does he notice his sleeve is smoking slightly.

Ikithon’s eyes travel over Bren slowly, lingering on the singed sleeve. “Nothing,” he says, and turns back to Da’leth. “Even just an authorization from you would go a long way –”

“Fine,” says Da’leth. “Now get out of my office.”

\--

Judging by the position of the sun in the sky, it is almost twenty-four hours exactly since Molly died when Fjord hears a horrible, rasping gurgle from the back of the wagon. Wheeling Shelby around, Fjord canters back to see Molly’s body flailing under the cloak they covered it with, everyone else staring in horror. “What the hell?” he demands, just as Molly rips the cloak away, his back arching and a terrible sucking sound in his chest.

“Molly!” Caduceus bends over him and puts a hand on the bloody hole under his sternum, iridescence gathering along his arm and flowing into Molly. After a few seconds, the light fades, and the gurgling turns into Molly gasping for air, his red eyes wide.

The wagon lurches to a halt, Yasha dropping the reins to twist around and stare as Caduceus touches Molly’s face with trembling fingers. “You’re back,” says Caduceus hesitantly.

Though clearly still in pain, Molly manages a smile, resting the back of his hand against Caduceus’ cheek. “Can’t get rid of me that easily,” he rasps.

Caduceus scoops Molly up in his arms, hugging him tight, and Molly winces hard but hugs him back, clawed fingers snarling in Caduceus’ shirt and tail wrapping around his waist. “Dude,” says Beau, dismounting Crapper, her eyes wide. “You _died._ ”

“Did I?” Molly disengages gingerly from Caduceus, looking down at the crimson soaking his torn shirt. “Guess that explains why I feel like absolute shite.” Nott climbs up onto the wagon to jab at Molly’s knee, testing his corporeality, and Molly scowls and bats her away.

Fjord still can’t quite believe what he’s seeing either. “How?” he demands.

Hesitantly, Molly touches his chest and winces, fingers coming away bloody. “I don’t know,” he says, and looks up at Fjord with stark uncertainty, but a little bit of a nervous grin. “Probably the same way I woke up six feet under the first time.”

The hairs on the back of Fjord’s neck rise, every instinct he has saying _this is wrong._ But he’s not exactly a stranger to uncanny magic either. And having Molly back means another sword at his side. “Well,” he says, and his breath clouds in the frosty air. “Glad to have you back.”

\--

“That’s everything,” snarls Hanrich in Zemnian, trembling, hands and feet bound to his chair, bloody hair falling in his eyes. Deep, charred burns striate his bare chest. “I told you everything. Happy, now that I’m a traitor like you?” and he spits at Bren’s feet.

It takes all of Bren’s skill to remain motionless. _Traitor?_ he wants to scream. _You have no idea how much I sacrificed, how much I gave up, and how_ little _it got me_ –

“Well,” sniffs Ikithon from behind Bren, brushing his hands off even though there’s no blood on them. “If that is indeed everything, then this conversation has come to an end.” He nods expectantly at Bren.

Sudden apprehension floods Bren, though he doesn’t know why. “Sir?”

Ikithon nods at Hanrich. “We’re done here. Take care of him.” He raises an eyebrow at Bren. “Don’t disappoint me, Bren.” The tone of his voice drops the temperature in the room by twenty degrees.

Bren looks back at their prisoner, whose eyes widen in sudden realization, and he struggles in his chair. He’s scared of me, Bren realizes. The thought sends a satisfied thrill up his spine – the thrill of finally being the hunter, rather than hunted – while anger at Hanrich surges up as well. Despite all his protestations, he can’t keep up a brave face?

 _I am so sorry, my friend,_ says Caleb, quiet and heavy.

“No,” begs Hanrich, shrinking back in the chair, “no no no, please, please, WAIT, I have more information, I know more –”

“No, I think we’re done here,” says Ikithon disdainfully. “Bren. I don’t have all day.”

Bren rounds back on Hanrich, who shrieks, nearly tipping his chair backwards. His face has gone doughy and pale with fear, and Bren can smell the acrid stink of his sweat. He hates this man. He hates his babbling fear. He hates how _weak_ he is.

Fire crackles under Bren’s skin.

Bren is not cruel. He makes it quick, immolating Hanrich before he has time to scream. When the flames clear, the charred body on the smoldering chair looks more like a crudely-carved statue than a corpse.

Instinctively, Bren turns back to Ikithon, whose small smile and glittering eyes signal his approval. A tiny knot in Bren’s stomach loosens before twisting even tighter. He will not look back at the body on the chair.

“Well done,” says Ikithon softly. “I think we might make something of you yet.”

\--

Fjord lowers the dying guard to the ground slowly, hand firmly clamped over his mouth. As he drags the body into shadow, he nods to Beau, Yasha, and Jester, who dart over out of the woods, towards the gate. The wooden wall of the Sour Nest looms over them, an howl hooting somewhere in the night.

Studying the face and clothes of the dead guard, Fjord masks himself to look like him and straightens. Moving easily but with purpose, he climbs back up onto the wall, keeping an eye out as the others rejoin at the gate – Beau, Yasha, Jester, Nott, and Molly all clustering together. Farther along the wall, another guard holds up a hand to Fjord and smiles. Caduceus. The only one not present is Bluud, still not in fighting condition and reluctantly staying behind with the horses.

Resisting the urge to summon the falchion, Fjord gazes around the stronghold of the Sour Nest, keeping a sharp eye out for any movement. Nothing so far, though that doesn’t ease his hammering pulse.

The heavy gates creak open just enough to allow those on the ground to dart through. Thanks to some scouting Jester did in mouse form earlier, they have a general idea of the layout, and she leads the group around the two-story building to the back door, careful to avoid any lines of sight from windows. Fjord lets his casual patrol take him along the wall to keep pace with them, watching the building for any sudden lights or movement. Flickering firelight comes through gaps in the shutters of what he thinks is the kitchen, but most of the windows are boarded shut.

The group huddles around Nott as she picks the lock, hiding her from Fjord’s view. A few moments later, they slip inside, the door shutting silently behind them. They’re in. Fjord lets out a heavy breath, gazing out across the still-quiet stronghold.

Maybe it’s a combination of nerves and his imagination, but Fjord swears he can feel a deep, pulsing hum in the soles of his feet. It wants him to approach the building. It _needs_ him to approach the building.

_CONSUME._

_Soon_ , Fjord promises, to himself, to the orb, to Uk’atoa. _I’ll get it. But we’re doin’ this right_.

A muffled but unmistakable crash sounds inside the building.

“Shit!” snarls Fjord, pulling the firecracker Beau gave him out of his vest. Lighting the fuse on a nearby torch, he hurls it towards the front of the building where it pops and crackles on the ground, and swings himself to the ground. Almost immediately, the front door swings open, heads poking out to investigate. Fjord sprints around to the back door, Caduceus on his heels, and they both throw themselves into the kitchen.

Firelight gleams orange on oily tables and floor, a strong scent of spoiling meat pervading the room. A dead guard lies in a pool of blood, and Molly stands in the doorway into the rest of the building, sword in hand. He tenses as Fjord and Caduceus run in, but Caduceus says, “It’s us, it’s us!”

“It’s all kicking off,” pants Molly, and darts through the door.

Fjord summons the falchion and rushes through into the hallway, where Yasha and Lorenzo’s barbarian woman Wohn are locked in combat, sword and hammer forgotten on the floor as they grapple and squeeze each other’s throats. Wohn grins in a bloody rage while Yasha’s gaze burns with icy fury. “Just because he’s not dead doesn’t mean I won’t kill you,” manages Yasha, low and deadly.

Wohn laughs and slams Yasha into the wall, choking her. “I’d like to see you try –”

Fjord fires an eldritch blast directly into her spine. Shrieking, Wohn drops Yasha and staggers, and Fjord blasts her a second and third time. The final bolt drops her to the floor, black-green energy dissipating over her motionless body.

Frowning, Yasha says, “Fjord?”

“Yeah.” He picks up her sword and tosses it to her.

“Thanks.” Yasha takes it, rubbing at her reddened throat with her other hand. “I had her, you know.”

“I know,” says Fjord, and hurries down the hallway. The call of the orb pulses in tune with the heartbeat in his ears, and he turns the corner into a sword-carrying guard. Fjord lunges with the falchion but the guard parries, slicing his sword upward and slashing a line of burning pain across Fjord’s bicep.

Snarling, Fjord blocks his next thrust and kicks him between the legs. The guard groans, knees buckling, and Fjord drives the falchion through his neck. Blood spatters on the floorboards as Fjord yanks the sword free, and he runs into the main room. Molly and Beau together drive another guard to the ground, Beau smashing his head into the floor until he shudders and stops moving.

Large ears and golden eyes peek out from around the corner. “Here, there’s a trapdoor!” hisses Nott, and Fjord sprints to join her. The trapdoor in question is in the floor of a small storage room, several crates shoved out of the way.

 _Yes_ , thinks Fjord, his blood humming. “Is it trapped?” he demands.

“Back up, out of the room,” orders Nott, and Fjord obeys. Crouching, Nott whispers into her cupped hands, and then reaches out. As she does, a ghostly hand floats outward, mimicking her motions. The phantom hand lifts the trapdoor up just enough to slide incorporeal fingers underneath, and with a soft _snk_ , disconnects a wire. “See,” she says smugly. “Just as easy as that.”

“Thanks.” Fjord looks up as his crew begins to gather in the room, most of them bloody and panting. “Deuce, with me, the rest of you follow in ten,” and he opens the trapdoor and descends. 

Dark, narrow stairs lead into a room hung with manacles and brands, cages in the corners and a rack bolted to the wall. One of Lorenzo’s guard turns as they enter, a hot poker in hand. “What’s going on?” he says, frowning.

“Intruder, but we took care of her,” says Fjord. Someone’s whimpering in one of the cages – sounds like a child. Cold instinct takes over and Fjord lunges forward, grabbing the guard’s wrist and twisting until he drops the poker. His other hand drives the falchion straight into the guard’s stomach.

Gurgling in pain, the guard drops to his knees. Fjord gives him half a second to contemplate his fate before beheading him, the body falling to the floor with a wet _thump_. Caduceus, meanwhile, rushes to the cage, where a pudgy, furry hand reaches out. “Hey,” murmurs Caduceus, taking the hand, his illusory disguise dropping. “We’re gonna get you out.”

Good, Caduceus can take care of that. Fjord turns as Nott scurries past him. As she crosses the room, a paving stone shifts, and a mass of netting and chunks of brick and stone falls from the ceiling. It hits the floor with a crash, Nott shrieking as a block of stone strikes her in the side and throws her to the ground.

Fjord growls, the loud noise clanging on his adrenaline-charged senses. “You okay?” says Beau, hurrying over to Nott. The rest of the crew follows in after her.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine!” Nott scrambles to her feet, brushing dust off herself.

They run into two more guards in the hallway, one falling to Yasha’s sword and the other to Nott’s crossbow. To hell with it, by now everyone knows they’re here, and Fjord slams open the next door, dismissing his own false apperance. This room contains two more occupied cages, as well as the half-elf bard and that halfling, Protto, who frowns in surprise when he sees Fjord. “Hey,” Protto says. “I seen you before –”

Fjord fires an eldritch blast straight at his chest, and he groans and staggers.

The half-elf bolts into the next hallway where she grabs a lever and pulls down, hard. Iron portcullises slam down on either side of the room, trapping them. “Ruzza!” yells Protto, running to the interior portcullis. “Ruzza, let me out –”

She pauses, looking terrified. Beau’s staff snaps out and smashes into the back of Protto’s ankles, and he yelps and falls, scrabbling for his crossbow. He fires point-blank at Beau, and she manages to catch one bolt out of the air before the other hits her square in the shoulder, and she grunts and staggers back. 

Yasha lunges forward, sword raised, but as she does Ruzza vocalizes a series of warbled, eerie notes. Eyes going blank, Yasha staggers to a halt, sword dropping in her hand. The same lethargy washes over Fjord, but as his mind goes blank, the orb pulses again, calling him.

 _FIGHT_.

Shaking off the stupor, Fjord growls and spins the falchion in a circle. As he takes a step towards Protto, Caduceus taps his staff against the stone floor. “Lunchtime, children,” he says, expression hard.

A dreadful humming fills the air as thousands of iridescent beetles swarm out of holes in the wood of his staff. They surge across the floor towards Protto, who shrieks and fires a useless bolt into the mass of bugs. Undeterred, the beetles crest like a wave over the halfling, their legs and jaws clicking. “ _Ruzza!_ ” screams Protto, clinging to the portcullis. “Ruzza, _please –_ ”

She fires two bolts of green-gold fire that remind Fjord achingly of Caleb, but the flames burst uselessly through gaps in the portcullis, only frying a handful of beetles. Protto’s screaming turns frantic as he disappears under the tide of insects, then chokes off as the bugs fill his mouth and nose. The insects continue, scurrying towards Ruzza, who jumps backwards and fends them off with another burst of flame.

Fjord lunges up against the portcullis, reaching through a gap, but he’s too far away from both her and the lever. As the beetles scuttle around Ruzza’s feet, she sings out a high note and vanishes in a flash of purple light, reappearing at the far end of the hall.

The beetles start receding back into Caduceus’ staff, leaving Protto’s mangled corpse behind. Nott’s incorporeal hand flies through a gap in the bars and finds the lever, pushing it up. With a groaning of chains, the iron gate lifts and Fjord throws himself through –

“ _Sleep_ ,” sings Ruzza, gesturing at someone behind Fjord. He whips around in time to see Nott collapse to the ground in a ragged little heap, right before the portcullis clangs down behind him.

Fjord whips back around to face Ruzza, who’s already running back down the hallway. At the same time, a deep, bassy voice reverberates in the air around him. “It’s rare that the meat carries itself right to your table,” drawls Lorenzo.

Heart pounding, Fjord looks around frantically for Lorenzo, but all he sees is the hallway and the iron gate behind him. Jester and Yasha both hurry forward to grasp the portcullis, straining as they try and raise it by force. Behind them, Caduceus bends over Nott, and Beau runs up to help Jester and Yasha. “Captain!” she yells.

 _Wom-wom-wom_ pulses the orb, beckoning. As if in slow motion, Fjord turns and looks back down the hallway. Ruzza is gone, and the stone walls seem to recede as the iron-bound door at the end of the hallway looms closer…

“Captain?” calls Beau again, but her voice is faint and fuzzy past the hum in Fjord’s ears. The cut in his arm throbs, blood soaking into his sleeve. Reaching the end of the hallway, he puts a hand to the door. Locked.

Lorenzo’s voice echoes against the stone walls. “What are you planning to accomplish?” he purrs. “You’ve killed a few bottom-barrel goons, but you’re in my domain now. I had first planned to make you into premium contraband when finished. However, I may just keep you all as my own personal pets.”

Fjord fires an eldritch blast at the door, leaving a smoldering hole where the lock was. It swings open, and he steps into the next room.

He barely registers the stone plinth and basin before fire roars out towards him. Fjord ducks, instinctively summoning a shell of ice, and it counters the fire with a loud hiss of steam. Slowly, Fjord straightens, warily eyeing the plinth. Embers crackle fitfully inside it, rousing for another blast.

Under the earth like this, the air is cool with moisture, the stone walls clammy. Fjord clenches his fist, willing the water to come together. It coalesces in a silvery orb before descending in the basin, submerging the ember. Holding his breath, Fjord sprints across the room.

Boiling water bursts outward, spattering Fjord’s back and side and he growls, charging through to the door. This one is shut fast too, but with a simple lock, and Fjord breaks it with one solid kick. “All right!” he roars, bursting into yet another torture chamber, this one bristling with irons and chains and a manacle-bound table. “Who wants some?”

Ruzza does, judging by her howl and outflung hand. A thunderclap bursts in the room, sending Fjord staggering back with his ears ringing. Another thug rushes towards him, sword in hand, and Fjord grunts and ducks his swing, the blade striking sparks on the stone wall. Grabbing the thug around the waist, he summons the falchion and stabs upwards into the man, who gurgles miserably and clutches his stomach.

“Do not kill him,” says Lorenzo, voice emanating from overhead. “He has not earned the mercy I gave his kaleidoscopic friend. Let him bleed, and bring him in chains. Oh, the horrors you’ll see…”

Pain slashes across Fjord’s side and he grunts, dropping to one knee. Bright metal flashes through the air and Fjord throws himself aside just in time to dodge the sweep of the glaive. Lorenzo looms above him, no longer human but massive, blue-skinned, two great horns curving back from his forehead. His eyes are as red as coals, and he leers at Fjord, chuckling.

From behind him, Ruzza hums an eerie tune, her eyes glowing. The air warps and shifts around Fjord, clawing at his brain, and he groans. A thousand thoughts chase each other in his mind, _run, hide, fight, sleep, STRIKE –_

A hand grips Fjord and yanks him to the left just as Lorenzo’s glaive comes slashing down where his head was. He gasps, the confusion clearing with a shock like cold water, as Caduceus shoves him back onto his feet with a hearty, “There you go!”

“Thanks,” pants Fjord, and spins his falchion to get a better grip. Lorenzo looms above him like a nightmare, a grin stretching his blue face. Out of the corner of his eye, Fjord sees Beau roundhouse kick another thug into the wall, while Jester and Molly fire twin infernal curses at Ruzza, the rest of the crew running into the room. The hum of the orb pulses louder and louder until all Fjord can hear is the pounding of blood in his ears –

Roaring, Fjord lunges at Lorenzo, ducking under the glaive and slashing upwards. Lorenzo shifts out of the way, faster than natural, and with a sweep of his hand sends icy shards rocketing towards Fjord. Just in time, Fjord summons his ice armor, the shards splintering against it. “Impressive,” says Lorenzo, gold tusks gleaming, and swings his glaive.

Fjord arcs the falchion up to block it with a ringing of metal, arms straining under the weight. But the jagged hooks on the glaive’s blade catch his sword, and Lorenzo sweeps it out of Fjord’s hands, his wrists twisting painfully. Fjord snarls, lunging for the falchion, as Lorenzo continues the glaive’s arc and whirls to meet Yasha, using the weapon’s handle to block her two-handed strike. Cold fury shines in her eyes, her teeth bared. “Fuck you,” she spits.

Grinning, Lorenzo says, “Fuck me indeed,” and vanishes just as Fjord stabs the falchion in his back.

Fjord stumbles forward into Yasha, nearly slicing his face on her sword, and spins around to see Lorenzo grab Caduceus by the throat and _squeeze_. Choking, Caduceus plants his hand on Lorenzo’s chest and white fire bursts outward, pushing the two of them apart. Fjord runs in again to Lorenzo’s dead side and slices the falchion along his back, cutting deep into muscle and fat. Lorenzo yells in pain, hands curling into claws, and makes a wild grab for Fjord. As he does, Yasha drives her sword into his shoulder to the hilt, the blade protruding out his chest with a spurt of blood. “This is for Molly,” she whispers, and twists the sword.

Blood spattered across his face, Molly approaches over Lorenzo’s other shoulder. “Don’t be melodramatic, darling, I’m right here,” he says, and drives his sword into Lorenzo’s ribs.

Lorenzo falls to his knees, blood burbling between his teeth as he chuckles, his red eyes still fixed on Fjord. With a cry of pain, Ruzza drops to the ground, the thug long since dispatched. “You hear it, don’t you?” rasps Lorenzo, and beckons to Fjord with one long-clawed finger. “Come here.”

_LEARN._

Blood trickling down the side of his face from a cut he doesn’t remember getting, heart hammering, Fjord tightens his grip on the falchion and stares down at Lorenzo. Even on his knees, the oni is nearly as tall as Fjord is. “Why?” says Fjord.

“ _Closer_.” Lorenzo’s teeth are as red as his eyes.

The air around him vibrates, something deep within Fjord pulling desperately towards the source of the call. Slowly, Fjord steps forward, the point of the falchion pressing into Lorenzo’s chest. “You could have claimed it,” he says, voice low and rough. “Why didn’t you?”

Faster than Fjord can blink, Lorenzo’s hand shoots up and grabs Fjord around the throat. Yasha yells, grabbing at her sword, but Lorenzo surges to his feet, Fjord’s boots leaving the ground as he claws at Lorenzo’s hand. “Because I know better than to meddle with things I can’t control, _boy_ ,” growls Lorenzo, face inches away from Fjord. His breath stinks of raw meat. “A lesson you have yet to learn.”

His hand squeezes and Fjord’s vision goes black around the edges, black as dark water, and Fjord’s lungs burn like he’s drowning. Drowning in the ocean, a single yellow eye sinking towards him. Flames rising around the _Tide’s Breath_ , red-gold.

Firelight dancing on Caleb’s hair.

“Actually,” chokes out Fjord, fumbling to grip Lorenzo’s collar, “I think maybe you do.” And he summons the falchion directly into Lorenzo’s throat.

Lorenzo’s eyes go wide and he drops Fjord, who yanks the falchion out as he falls to the floor. Clutching his throat, blood running through his fingers, Lorenzo opens his mouth to speak but only broken sounds come out. Water trickles from the falchion, moisture collects on the stones, sweat rolls down Fjord’s forehead, and his entire being feels alive with a deep, dark lust. Everyone else stands watching him but he only has eyes for Lorenzo, who for the first time looks genuinely afraid. “You don’t know what I can control,” growls Fjord, and clamps his hand over Lorenzo’s mouth and nose, and calls the water.

It surges through him and into Lorenzo, who jerks and sputters and spasms, bloody water spurting out of the hole in his neck and through Fjord’s fingers. Fjord hangs on like grim death, watching as Lorenzo drowns, hearing nothing except his own heartbeat and the relentless bassy hum…

He knows it’s over when Lorenzo goes limp. Fjord lets him fall, the massive meaty body hitting the stones with a dull thud. Panting, he looks up and for the first time registers the awe and horror on the faces of his crew. “Yeah,” says Fjord, looking down at his bloody hand, and wipes his nose on the back of his arm. “Yeah. So. Uh.”

Caduceus straightens slowly from his crouch on the floor, using his staff as a support, his narrowed eyes fixed on Fjord. Yasha and Molly stand together, both breathing heavy, and Nott slinks up beside Jester, who looks horrified. “What the _fuck_?” whispers Beau.

“You wanted to see what was happenin’ with the eyes of Uk’atoa?” says Fjord to her, and kneels by Lorenzo’s corpse. “Well, come look.”

_LISTEN._

He doesn’t need to search. Fjord unbuckles the bloody, sweat-stained leather chest-piece and folds it open, finding a pocket on the inside. His fingers close around something cool, round, and hard, about the size of a walnut. Taking a deep breath, Fjord draws it out.

The golden orb winks at him in his bloody palm, light glinting off its many facets and the carven slit. Heart pounding like he’s still in combat, Fjord closes his fist around it, and the lights go out.

Fjord stares around him at the night sky and the ocean waves, lit only by the faintest starlight. There are wood planks under his feet, and as his eyes adjust, he sees bare masts like winter trees rising above him. He’s on a ship. A ship that stinks of soot and tar. A burnt ship.

A bitterly cold wind plays with Fjord’s hair as he looks for Caleb, but he does not see him. Instead, something rumbles in the depths, a wave rocking the ship and rippling outwards in all directions.

 _POTENTIAL_.

A yellow glow blooms around Fjord, and he finds the cloven crystal in his palm. In its light, he can see the charred timbers of the _Tide’s Breath,_ its sails and rigging reduced to ash. “Caleb?” Fjord calls again, but no voice responds.

The thing in the deep stirs again, the _Tide’s Breath_ creaking with the movement of the water.

_CONSUME._

Hunger yawns in Fjord, an unfillable gulf, and he jams the stone into his gut without thinking. His flesh parts with only a twinge of pain, the orb sinking in, absorbing itself into his body. Fjord gasps and falls to his knees, head spinning, and as he does, he sees for the briefest second a figure standing across from him, the light glinting on his copper hair.

_REWARD._

“Caleb!” Fjord leaps towards him, but as he does, the vision vanishes and he’s back in the Sour Nest, reaching for nothing. Multiple sets of hands grip his arms, both Beau and Caduceus right in his face.

“Where’s the orb?” demands Beau.

“What the fuck was that? What just happened?” shrills Nott.

Exhaustion ripples through Fjord and he sags into Caduceus, vertigo hitting him briefly. Jester immediately rushes forward and starts trying to pull aside his armor, checking his stomach. “What’re you doin’?” slurs Fjord.

“There’s no scar!” exclaims Jester, eyes wide. “No wound!”

Fjord looks down at his palm, now empty of the orb, and then around at everyone else. They regard him with even more apprehension than after he drowned Lorenzo. “What happened?” he asks slowly.

“You have the thing in you,” says Jester hesitantly, her hand still on Fjord’s stomach. Normally, her skin is cool to touch, but now she feels as warm as Caleb sometimes did. So does everyone else still touching him.

Stepping back slowly, Yasha says, “It’s now in your chest.”

“Huh.” Fjord looks down at himself, seeing no new blood or damage to his armor. “So that’s how Avantika did it.”

Caduceus frowns. “Who?”

“It’s a long story. Let’s just say I’m glad I didn’t have to cut my hand open.” Fjord waves him off, pushing tiredly onto his own two feet. Despite his physical exhaustion and his bleeding wounds, excitement shimmers at the back of his mind. Looking around, Fjord can’t find his falchion, so he summons it again.

Twin yellow crystals shine, one in the pommel and one in the center of the crossguard. The blade itself is different too, longer and sharper with a wicked barb towards the end, and a faint wavelike pattern of ultramarine iridescence shimmers on the forged steel. “Awesome,” he breathes. “Let’s get out of here.”

\--

In return for the Gentleman’s information and assistance, Fjord owed him two things. One was the rout of the Iron Shepherds, as they’d been making life difficult for a business partner of the Gentleman’s in Shady Creek Run. The other was a seventy-five-percent cut of any coins, jewels, or other valuables found in the Sour Nest.

Even twenty-five percent makes more money than Fjord’s ever seen in his life. Lorenzo’s coffers were kept full, and the gleaming gold and platinum make Fjord giddy with delight for a moment. “You know what this is?” he says, scooping up a handful of glittering coins.

Crouched on her haunches beside him, Yasha frowns. “Money?”

“More than that.” Fjord turns over a gold coin in his fingers, seeing the light reflect off its yellow metal face. “A ship.” A fine ship. A ship big enough to ransack ports and fight off the Concord. A ship Fjord can call home.

A ship he can take Caleb back to and keep him safe.

From another chest in Lorenzo’s room, Molly reverently lifts up a gleaming golden scimitar, jewels inlaid along the blade among elaborate, vinelike engravings. A low whistle escapes his lips as he turns it over, watching the light run along the blade. “Now that’s pretty,” remarks Fjord.

“Yeah.” Molly grins, returning the sword to its sheath, and buckles it around his waist.

Yasha, too, has found a sword, this one a brutally elegant broadsword with runes engraved along the blade and a golden, V-shaped hilt. “You should keep that,” says Molly.

“Mm.” Holding the blade up, Yasha eyes it appreciatively.

Because they’re not total assholes – mostly because Jester and Caduceus insisted – they release any captives left alive inside the Sour Nest, sending them on their way with food and shoes and whatever healing the clerics were able to dole out. There are animals, too – not just horses, but a kennel of dogs that snap and snarl at the gates of their cages, bite scars visible on their hides. “Poor bastards,” says Fjord grimly, opening cages as Caduceus convinces the dogs not to attack them, there are plenty of corpses lying around to eat.

He starts turning the horses out as well, and then comes to Lorenzo’s steed, a massive black warhorse with an ugly head. It watches Fjord warily as he approaches, red nostrils flared and ears pinned back. “Hey, now,” murmurs Fjord, and reaches out with his power. It’s the first time he’s touched it since consuming the second orb, and a dark shiver runs up his spine. He can see the horse’s aura, a faint red glimmer around it, and if he leans into his power just so he can touch it –

The horse snorts and rears back, ragged mane tossing. _Easy_ , says Fjord, and half-closes his eyes, soothing the animal. With another snort, it subsides, and he puts a hand on its velvety muzzle, scratching gently.

“Fjord?” says Jester. “We’re ready to go.”

Turning, Fjord sees her in the entrance of the stable, wrapped in her traveling cloak. “All right,” he says. “Let me get this horse tacked up, and I’ll be ready to go.”


	17. Act III, Scene 5

A chill wind whips around Bren and Astrid’s heels as they teleport to the town of Lollar, the grass dead under their feet. Bren wraps his coat tighter around himself, squinting at the buildings in front of them. Smoke rises from most of the chimneys, the residents going about their business bundled up under cloaks and scarves. “Here?” says Bren skeptically. “Really?”

Astrid shrugs minutely. “The last man we interviewed has a cousin here.”

Right. Bren squints out over the snow-dusted hills as he follows Astrid along the road. Footsteps crunch on the frozen ground behind them, and Bren looks over his shoulder to see a woodsman leading his branch-laden donkey behind him. When he sees Bren and Astrid, their long black coats flapping in the wind like raven wings, his face grows pale and he walks faster, the donkey tripping along behind him.

A chill that has nothing to do with the wind sinks into Bren. “They’re afraid of us,” he says quietly.

Giving him a strange look, Astrid says, “Of course they are.”

Bren considers this briefly before deciding he would rather not. As he and Astrid walk into Lollar, the townsfolk giving them a wide and wary berth while avoiding eye contact, a flash of color on a storefront catches Bren’s attention. While the fabric banner is faded and battered by the elements, the traditional sun pattern is still visible. “It’s New Dawn already?” he asks, surprised.

“We passed it two weeks ago.” Astrid gives him another look.

“Ah.” A strange pang of nostalgia hits Bren, memories of celebrating New Dawn as a child by dropping lumps of molten lead into water to see what shape the metal hardens in, predicting the coming year. A ball for luck, an anchor for help in need, a cross for death… “We missed it.”

Astrid sighs, breath frosting in the air. “Do you remember when we celebrated New Dawn together, our last year together at Solytrce? You, I, and Eodwulf?”

They snuck out of their dorms to meet in one of the empty classrooms, huddled around the fire Bren lit as they melted their little spoonfuls of lead and dropped them into a bowl of water, passing around a bottle of plum brandy Eodwulf stole. Outside, fireworks rang above Rexxentrum, the city welcoming the new year with pyrotechnics and drunken singing. “I think it’s a fox,” said Astrid, squinting at the little hardened blob of lead in her palm.

“No way,” said Eodwulf. “It’s a dog.”

“No!” protested Astrid. “It’s a fox, the ears are pointed, see –”

Bren brought the bottle to his lips and drank, gasping as the alcohol burned on its way down. “It’s a wolf.”

Smiling, Astrid said, “And what does a wolf mean?” The orange light of the flames danced over her face, the curve of her cheek so smooth and soft, a sparkle in her eyes. Bren swallowed hard, heat from the liquor suffusing his body.

“Oh, scheiβe,” said Eodwulf, digging in his pocket. “I almost forgot,” and he pulled out a squashed brown paper parcel with grease marks on it. “I got these!”

Opening the parcel, he produced a somewhat-smushed ball of fried dough, powdered sugar smeared across it and jam leaking from a hole in the side. Astrid gasped in delight, lunging for it. “Krapfen! Where did you get them?”

Eodwulf grinned and popped the pastry in his mouth. “That’s my secret.” Powdered sugar coated his lips that Bren suddenly, desperately, wanted to kiss off…

Laughing, Astrid reached for the parcel, which Eodwulf held out of her reach so that she fell against his chest. For a breathless second, their eyes met, and then Eodwulf leaned forward and kissed Astrid.

Warmth flooded Bren as he took another drink, watching Eodwulf’s fingers curl in Astrid’s hair and her body soften against his. How he loved the both of them, how beautiful they both were…

Astrid slowly pulled away from Eodwulf and looked over to Bren, her cheeks and lips flushed. She reached out and he took her hand, setting the bottle aside. As Bren kissed Astrid for the first time, plum brandy still dancing on his tongue, everything felt _right_ , his disparate pieces clicking together. And then Eodwulf’s hand under his chin, turning Bren so he looked into Eodwulf’s deep dark eyes before their lips met as well…

“Bren?” says Astrid, the chilly breeze toying with a few strands that came loose from her slicked-back hair.

Bren clears his throat, glancing around the streets of Lollar where faded New Dawn banners still hang from the eaves. “I remember,” he says.

For a long moment, Astrid holds his gaze, eyes bright and hard as emeralds. Then she starts walking down the road again, scanning the buildings and the residents that stand huddled on corners or under eaves, watching her while trying to look like they’re not watching. “This way,” she says.

Bren follows her down one street and then another, reaching a modest two-story home of wattle and daub. A woman stands in the adjoining yard, dumping out a bucket of food scraps for three pigs to root through; when she sees Bren and Astrid, she goes pale and hurries inside the house, slamming the door shut behind her.

Astrid sighs and strides up to the front door of the house, knocking sharply on it. After a moment with no answer, she knock again, saying, “Open up! Official Empire business.” Bren draws up close behind her, an uneasy feeling prickling his neck like unfriendly eyes are watching. But he sees no one else on the street.

The door creaks open, the woman from the yard peering through the crack. There are tired lines around her mouth and eyes, and her gray-streaked hair is pulled back in a messy bun. “What do you want?” she says, in hoarse, Zemnian-accented Common.

“We are looking for Fridolf Nerius,” says Astrid. “Cousin of Hanrich Nerius. Is this his home?”

Eyes darting to the side, the woman swallows hard and draws back slightly. “No,” she says. “No, he’s not here –” and she moves to close door.

Bren steps forward and puts his palm to the door, keeping it open. “Don’t lie,” he says, low. “Where is he?”

The woman stammers. “He’s not – he’s not here, I swear, please –”

Anger flares in Bren, the residuum heating. “I said, _don’t lie._ ”

Stifling a gasp, the woman starts back. As she does, a large man roughly her age steps up to her side. “It’s all right, Lise,” he says tiredly. “Let them in.”

She rounds on him, saying rapidly in Zemnian, “ _Are you serious? They’re going to take you away like they did Hanrich_ –”

“ _They’re going to take me away anyway_.” His eyes are a wintery blue-gray with circles underneath them, silvering stubble covering his heavy jaw, and he wears worn but heavy woolen clothes. “ _Let them in_.”

Fear and anger war in Lise’s face as she steps back, opening the door. Bren’s handprint is burnt black on the wood. “Come in,” says the man. “Fridolf Nerius, at your service.”

Hands clasped behind her back, Astrid nods tersely to him and steps inside, Bren behind her. The interior of the home is poor but well-kept, a large log burning in the fireplace. A girl of about fourteen or fifteen looks up as they enter from where she stirs a pot of bubbling beige mush over the fire, a toddler clinging to her skirts. “My daughters,” says Fridolf. “Greta and Sirgritte. My sons are out but will be back by sundown.”

The toddler stares up at Bren with wide blue eyes, wisps of straw-colored hair framing her round face. Wool skirt swishing, Lise swoops the child up and holds her close, glaring suspiciously at Bren.

“So,” says Fridolf. “What can I do for two servants of the Empire?”

Despite being a head taller and several stone heavier than Astrid, Fridolf shrinks slightly as she turns towards him. “When was the last time you spoke to Hanrich?” she says.

“Last month, I helped him repair his barn roof.”

“What did he speak to you about?”

“Uh…” Fridolf glances at his wife. “About the roof, mostly.” Lise moves to stand beside her husband, the child in her arms still staring at Bren with her fingers in her mouth. “We looked at some of his cows. I talked about getting a bull calf of his if one gets born next spring.”

Astrid stands with same eerie motionless Bren noticed when he first saw her. “And did he express any dissatisfaction with the Empire, in the course of your conversation?”

“He, um…” Scratching the back of his neck with a large hand, Fridolf continues, “He was worrying about having a hard time paying his taxes…”

“ _Why are you telling them this?_ ” hisses Lise. “ _They took him, they already know –_ ”

“ _It’s good to have corroborating evidence_ ,” says Astrid smoothly, and Lise pales and retreats behind Fridolf slightly. “And what where Hanrich’s specific thoughts regarding taxation?”

After shuffling his feet for a moment, Fridolf glances at Astrid from under his heavy brow with a new resolve. “He thought the taxes are too high,” says Fridolf steadily, and Lise whimpers. “He says the Empire takes what it wants and leaves us with barely enough to feed and clothe our own children. He says the wheat we grow and the flour we mill becomes cakes that the wealthy leave on their tables for show, until the cakes become stale and are fed to the pigs.”

“That sounds like an exaggeration to me,” says Bren quietly. He ignores the memories of lean winters, of Una going without dinner so he could eat.

“Maybe so,” acknowledges Fridolf. “But not as much as one might think.”

The girl by the fire has completely forgotten the cooking pot, instead staring at Astrid and Bren with her mouth slightly open. “ _Greta_ ,” whispers Lise. “ _Keep stirring, the porridge will burn_ ,” and she starts and returns guiltily to her task.

“So do you agree with him, then?” says Astrid. “That the taxes and grain tithes are too high?”

Fridolf glances at his family before saying, “With all due respect, ma’am, I do. I got four children to feed. It’s difficult enough without the boys in red taking half of what I grow.”

Squeaking in alarm, Lise says, “Fridolf, _no –_ ”

“It’s the truth.” Fridolf looks sadly at Astrid. “Does that make me a traitor, for wanting to take care of my children?”

She jerks her chin up, jaw as sharp as a knife blade. “You do know we are on the brink of war, right? That grain is for the men and women keeping your children safe.”

“I know. I know.” Fridolf sighs heavily. “And I am grateful. It’s just… there’s only so much one man can bear.”

Bren looks around at the man’s cozy home, at his healthy children and the wife at his side, and the embers in his chest flare. “Is there, Fridolf?” Bren snarls, advancing. Both parents flinch back, the toddler whimpering as Lise clutches her tight. “What do you know, about how much one man can bear? Have you had your soul carved out of you? Have you watched everything you love burn into ash –”

The fire on the hearth roars, making Greta scream and drop the ladle, jumping back. “You know _nothing_ ,” hisses Bren, smokey tendrils rising around him, the edges of his vision turning red-gold. “Maybe Astrid and I ought to show you –”

“Please,” stammers Fridolf, shielding his wife and children behind him, sweat running down his reddening face, “please, sir, I didn’t mean any offense, please don’t hurt us –”

Astrid’s hand closes on Bren’s arm, her fingers sinking painfully into his flesh. “Bren.”

Breathing hard, Bren swallows the flames back down, glaring at the terrified family. Soot rings the floor around his feet and spreads across the ceiling and walls like shadows; glowing residuum shows through the burned-bare patches of his coat. The toddler has started wailing. “I think Archmage Ikithon will want to talk to you further,” says Astrid smoothly, stepping forward and taking Fridolf’s arm. He lets her lead him with a helpless look back at his wife. “Please come with us.”

“Papa?” says Greta, voice trembling.

Fridolf turns back to his daughter with a smile barely holding back tears, and Caleb’s heart breaks. Bren growls silently, pushing any feelings deep down. Sympathy makes him weak. Sympathy will kill him. “It’s all right, _Schatzi_ ,” Fridolf says. “I’ll be okay.” She nods, clutching her mother’s hand.

As Fridolf crosses the threshold with Bren and Astrid out into the cold winter air, Lise cries out, “ _Fridolf!_ ” and rushes forward. Turning, Fridolf takes her face in his hands and kisses her, tears rolling down both their cheeks.

Face as impassive as stone, Astrid waits as Fridolf and Lise break the kiss and touch their foreheads together, Fridolf brushing his thumbs over Lise’s cheeks. “I love you,” he says.

Lise sniffles and gasps. “I love you too.”

A memory surfaces, fuzzy and indistinct; cool water lapping at Bren as gentle hands cradle his face, lips touching his. A second later, pain stabs Bren in the temple and he grimaces, pushing the heel of his palm to his forehead.

“Time to go,” says Astrid, and turns to Bren with a frown. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” gasps Bren, straightening. He glares at Fridolf. “Let’s go.”

\--

The road from Rexxentrum to Port Damali runs straight through the Zemni Fields. Fjord doesn’t think too much of this until he remembers that this is where Caleb is from, and then he starts seeing Caleb everywhere: in the redheaded man turning the corner as they ride by, or in the freckles of the innkeeper when they stop for the night, or in the blue eyes and hooked nose of the woman who sells them bread and apples and jerky for the road ahead.

“Dude,” says Beau, as they ride into Yrossa on a chilly day, the overcast sky as flat white as the snow-dusted ground. “You okay? You look super out of it.”

Fjord grunts, body swaying as his horse plods down the main thoroughfare. Yrossa is the biggest city in the Zemni Fields, and the crew had decided to go in for a hot lunch before continuing onwards, but something about this place makes the back of Fjord’s neck prickle uneasily. Maybe it’s the slight lean of the gabled buildings over the streets. Or maybe it’s the way the residents go about their business as quickly as possible, in contrast with the swaggering groups of Crownsguard that linger around taverns and on street corners.

“This is a bad town,” remarks Yasha, her fur-lined hood drawn over her head.

Caduceus narrows his eyes at two Crownsguard in a tavern doorway as they whistle and catcall at a young woman, who draws her shawl tighter over her head and hurries by. “These are bad people,” he says quietly.

Responding to the tension in the air, Fjord’s horse snorts and bobs its head so hard it nearly yanks Fjord’s arms out of the socket. Muttering under his breath, Fjord regains a hold on the reins; the black beast is a lot bigger than Shelby, a lot stronger, and so desensitized by Lorenzo’s treatment that it doesn’t respond to light signals. “Let’s just find somewhere to eat and get out of here as fast as we can,” Fjord says.

They find a public eating house not overrun by Crownsguard and make a meal of sausages, boiled potatoes and turnips, and ale. Most of those eating with them look like laborers who go in, get their food, shovel it down, and leave, but one group of young men sits in a corner, empty plates in front of them as they discuss something in quiet, serious tones. “You get the feeling somethin’s brewin’ here?” says Fjord darkly, drinking his ale.

Molly twitches his tail uneasily, hunched over his half-eaten food. “Just a little bit.”

As they retrieve their horses, Beau slinks off to talk to the pub owner, but returns in a few minutes looking sour. “He wouldn’t talk to me,” she says, swinging onto Crapper. “I tried to tell him I wasn’t working for the Empire, but he didn’t care.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re not very friendly.” Jester adjusts her skirts and seat on the saddle, Bluud looming behind her. “My dad says the first step to making someone do what you want is to be their friend.”

Beau frowns at her. “Do I really come across as not friendly?”

“A little bit.” Jester shrugs.

With a grunt and a helping hand from her, Nott climbs up behind Yasha and settles on her mount’s sturdy haunches. Gathering his reins, Fjord drums his heels into the beast horse’s sides and starts moving down the road, the rest of his little crew following behind him.

A furlong or so down the road, arcane purple flashes and two figures in long black robes appear, snow dusting around their feet. Fjord jerks on the reins, stopping his horse short. The people are too far away for him to make out their features, but he gets the sense from their stance that they watch him as intently as he watches them. Is that…? It couldn’t possibly be…

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Yrossans retreating into the buildings, doors and shutters closing. The eerie prickle down his spine intensifies.

Beau rides up alongside Fjord, squinting at the two people. “Captain?”

Fjord’s breath forms an icy cloud in front of him as he exhales. “Let’s hang tight a minute and see what happens.”

The two figures begin to move towards them. It’s not Caleb, Fjord tells himself, even though the pounding of his heart says otherwise. Why should it be? What are the odds he would come to this city as them at the same time…

Nott climbs up onto Yasha’s shoulders to see better, Yasha wincing as goblin claws dig into her back. “Is that Caleb?” Nott says.

They’re close enough now that Fjord can make out his copper hair, recognize the set of his narrow shoulders. His heart hammers, his throat constricting. “Yeah,” he manages. “Yeah.” Wrenching on the reins, he turns the beast horse under him, scanning the surroundings. His crew behind him, waiting for his direction with wary frowns. The broad stone road, timber-framed buildings rising on either side, occasional streets and alleys leading away. A handful of Crownsguard, filing out leisurely from a pub to watch. And Caleb and the other person with him, standing between Fjord and the way out of town.

Caduceus watches him with the distinct air of seeing more than Fjord’s surface words and actions. “What’s our next move?”

“Hey, I recognize that lady,” says Jester, nose wrinkled. “She was with Ikithon at the Soltryce Academy gala.”

She does look vaguely familiar, pale with short dark blonde hair and dressed in the same long black coat as Caleb. Almost certainly she’s a mage as powerful as him, if not more so. “Approach slowly,” Fjord decides. “When shit goes south, go for the woman. Beau and Bluud, you guys can take care of the Crownsguard when they get involved, right?”

Bluud snorts, cracking his knuckles. “Sure you don’t want me handling the woman?” says Beau. “If I hit her right I can stun her.”

“Good point. All right, Beau, get in there if you can. Yasha, stick with Bluud. Caduceus, by me, I might need your help.” Fjord sets his jaw, steeling himself as Caleb and the woman slowly walk closer. “I’ll take care of Caleb.”

Dismounting, Fjord starts walking to meet them, leading his horse along. His feet crunch on the frozen ground, the air chill on his face and fingertips, his pulse thudding in his ears. A deep, steady hum hovers on the edge of his consciousness, his mind oddly clear.

Caleb and the other woman are close enough now Fjord can read their expressions – or lack thereof. Both of their faces are blank and hard as stone, eyes like chips of blue and green glass. Fjord tries not to think about how this is the closest he’s been to Caleb since the disaster in the Sanatorium, about how the angles of his cheeks and jaw are sharper than ever, about how he looks at Fjord without a hint of expression. “So,” calls the woman. She speaks with a Zemnian accent, voice flat. “You are the half-orc that has been causing us so much trouble.”

“Yup, that’d be me.” Fjord strides forward. “I need to talk to Caleb, if you don’t mind.”

Something flashes across Caleb’s face too quickly to identify, maybe anger or pain. “My name is Bren Ermendrud,” he says flatly.

Ice crystallizes around Fjord’s heart. He’s been brainwashed, he tells himself, keeping a neutral expression. He’s not thinking straight. “No, you’re not,” he says, forcing his voice to stay even, ignoring the woman. “That used to be your name, but you haven’t gone by that for a long while now –”

The woman’s mask briefly breaks in alarm before she lunges forward and a sizzling bolt of yellow-green energy leaps off her palm and strikes Fjord square in the chest.

It burns like acid against his leather chestplate and Fjord yells more in surprise than pain, the beast horse whinnying and tossing its head up behind him. “Now!” he roars, ice crystallizing around his torso, and summons the falchion.

Burning rays of holy light streak out from Jester and Caduceus, along with Nott’s crossbow bolt, only to deflect off the arcane shield the woman conjures in front of her. Fjord runs at Caleb, whose hands light on fire, an orange light gleaming in his eyes –

Molly spins his new sword, disappears in a puff of mist, and reappears behind the woman with a flash of gold as he swings at her. His sword slices up her back and she cries out, spine arching, before spinning around with a savage expression and grabbing Molly by the jaw.

“Now, come on,” pants Fjord, circling Caleb warily, “you know this ain’t right –”

The woman’s fingers sink like claws into Molly’s skin and a sickly green energy pulses through her veins, up her wrist and over her fingers and into Molly, flashing dully under his skin. He chokes, eyes bulging, and the woman staggers back with a gasp. But Molly falls to the ground, writhing, foam at the corners of his mouth.

Sparks flare and Fjord tears his gaze away just in time to duck a fireball from Caleb. It streaks over him and hits the snowy ground, hissing and sputtering, making the horses squeal and scatter. “Stop!” roars Fjord. “It’s me! You know who I am –”

“Yes,” gasps Caleb, eyes and hands burning. His black coat smolders at the throat and wrists, embers peeling the cloth away. “The pirate who stole my life –”

Beau leaps forward and punches the woman in the face with an audible _crack_. Behind Fjord, shouts and clanging armor tell him the Crownsguard have entered the fray.

“Is that what he put in your head?” demands Fjord. Caleb shoots another fireball at him and he throws himself out of the way, rolling to his feet. “Caleb, you know it ain’t true –”

“It is – _aargh –_ ” Caleb hunches, face screwed up in pain. “It is, it is, it is –”

He collapses to his knees, both hands clutching at his head. Frowning, Fjord lowers the falchion, heedless of the chaos around him as he approaches Caleb. “Cay…?”

“Stay away!” screams Caleb, and fire explodes between him and Fjord.

Fjord hastily conjures a sheet of frost that blocks the worst of the flames from reaching him, throwing himself to the side as the sparks hiss against his icy armor. The steam clears to reveal Caleb standing again, eyes fully glowing orange, and more of his coat burned away. Fjord stares at the scale-like, red-gold crystals that wrap around his forearms and neck, glinting with a fiery light. “Caleb,” he whispers, horrified. “What did they do to you –”

Green light swipes through the air and Beau flies backwards, landing hard on the cobblestones with a grunt. Looking haggard, blood running from his nose, Caduceus stretches his staff towards the woman with pure fury in his eyes, the buzz of a beetle swarm filling the air –

“Bren!” shouts the woman, dashing past Molly’s lifeless body to grab Caleb’s arm. For a split second, Fjord and Caleb’s eyes meet, and he swears he glimpses blue in them before he and the woman disappear in another flash of purple light.

“Damn it!” roars Fjord in frustration, spinning around. Caduceus races over to Molly’s body and lifts him, whistling shrilly. The scattered horses prick up their ears and canter over, skittering nervously over the cold ground. Nott sprints over to Fjord as Beau picks herself up, but Jester stands further back, a giant pink lollipop floating above her as she watches what looks like every Crownsguard in the city swarm Bluud and Yasha.

Fjord manages to snag the reins of his beast of a horse as it trots by, staggering as it pulls him off balance. Grabbing the horse’s saddle, he gets his foot in the stirrup and swing himself up, pulling the reins tight. “We’re going!” he shouts. “Move out!”

The minotaur swings his double-bladed war axe, holding the crimson tide at bay. “Go!” he bellows.

Blood coating the side of her face, Yasha extricates herself from the melee and runs back towards the others, grabbing Jester as she does so. “Come on –”

“No!” yells Jester, kicking furiously as Yasha lifts her off her feet. “Let me go!”

Caduceus heaves Molly’s body over the back of his horse and mounts, Beau pulling Nott up behind her onto Crapper. The pink lollipop swings through the air uselessly as it gets dragged back with Jester, Yasha keeping a firm grip around her waist as she climbs onto her steed. “Bluud!” screams Jester, struggling desperately as he begins to sink under a mass of red tunics and steel armor.

Wrenching his horse’s head around, Fjord drives his heels into its sides and spurs it into a full-tilt gallop down the road towards the city gates, hooves pounding as the others follow him. They blur past more incoming guard, crossbow bolts whizzing by them, and someone’s mount squeals in pain but Fjord doesn’t dare look back to see who’s fallen behind, just focuses all of his energy on the city gates ahead of him –

“Close the gates!” roars a Crownsguard captain, running towards them, and the guard posted there begin to push on the giant wooden crank, the great gates groaning as they begin to slowly shut.

Power surges up in Fjord, and he growls “ _No,_ ” and the fear and anger and tension burst out of him in a massive thunderous wave that blasts the snow off the ground with a tremendous _boom_ , the gates splintering and buckling on their hinges and the Crownsguard knocked off their feet.

 _Dadadum-dadadum-dadadum_ go his horse’s hooves, faster and faster and faster, and like an arrow loosed from the bow Fjord and his crew gallop through the half-closed gates and out into the wintery wilderness, Yrossa shrinking behind them as they sprint down the snowy road.

They keep driving until the horses begin to stumble and blow, snorting out clouds of frosty air like dragons. Panting, legs sore, Fjord looks behind him for any pursuit, but the road behind them is blank and white. Giving his horse’s sweaty neck an absent pack, Fjord takes stock of his crew.

Beau and Nott both look battered but in fighting shape as they scan for Crownsguard as well; Caduceus holds Molly’s limp body close, the tiefling’s head lolling against his shoulder. Gasping sobs punctuate the air as Jester cries, huddled miserably in Yasha’s arms. “We _left_ him,” she whimpers, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Walking his horse up alongside Yasha’s, Fjord puts a hand on Jester’s shoulder. She sucks in a great shuddering breath, wiping her cheeks on her wrist. “He did what he set out to do,” says Fjord quietly. “Protect you.”

Jester bursts into renewed sobs, and Yasha shoots Fjord a reproachful look, tucking a fold of her cloak around Jester. “We should keep moving,” Yasha says.

“Agreed.” Fjord scans the horses for the one that got shot, pleased to see that Caduceus managed to bring along both Jester and Molly’s horses as well. Caduceus’ horses is the injured one, a crossbow bolt sticking out of its heavy haunch with blood staining its dappled gray hide; before Fjord can say anything, Caduceus dismounts, leaving Molly draped over the saddle, and puts a hand on the horse’s side. He murmurs something too quiet for Fjord to hear, but it must work, because when he yanks the bolt out the horse only shivers and twitches instead of bolting. A moment later, Caduceus has the wound healed in a glow of divine light, and swings back up into the saddle. “All right,” says Fjord, checking over his shoulder one last time. Still clear, for now. “Let’s go.”

They ride on until night falls, camping in a dense fir wood far enough away from the road that their small fire won’t be seen. As they huddle around the dancing flames, the dead body of Molly stirs where Caduceus laid him on the ground, groaning. “Molly,” breathes Caduceus, bending over him. “How are you feeling?”

Cursing in Infernal, Molly curls in around himself, clutching his gut, his tail writhing. “Easy, easy, easy,” chants Caduceus, low and gravelly, and lays a hand on Molly’s side. Once again, the gentle glow flares around him and then subsides, and as it does Molly lets out a deep gasp and starts breathing easier, sweat beading his forehead. “There you go,” murmurs Caduceus, and tucks a strand of sweaty hair behind Molly’s horn, stroking one finger over the ridged curl of bone.

Fjord watches this tender scene with an odd ache in his chest, grateful for the shadows half-covering his face. He did the same for Caleb, once, waking him out of a nightmare and smoothing his sweaty hair away. That seems like an eternity ago, especially compared to the hard look in Caleb’s eyes today.

It’s still him, under there, Fjord reminds himself. A goddess said so.

He just needs to reach deeper.

\--

Bren isn’t used to asking for help. But the half-orc, Fjord, spoke to him today, and something shifted inside him, cracks forming in carefully-built walls. There are two sets of memories in Bren’s head and he doesn’t know which are true. But Astrid will know. Astrid always knows. Pausing outside her door, Bren knocks lightly, three times. “It’s me,” he says. “Bren.”

“Come in,” says Astrid, from within. Bren pushes open the door.

Her room is lit by a solitary lamp, the velvet curtains drawn. Astrid sits on her desk, staring into nothing, her profile clear-cut against the dark wall behind her. Black coat gone, she wears a stark navy blouse and black trousers. “Bren.”

Slowly, Bren walks up to her, stopping just within arms’ reach. “How is your back?” The bruise the Cobalt Soul monk left is faded already, barely a purple shadow left on her jaw.

“Mending,” says Astrid. Her fingers play with the loose skin of her opposite wrist, a gesture Bren remembers from long ago. “How is your head?”

“Fine.” The pounding headache seems to go as quickly as it comes, which Bren is grateful for. “Astrid…”

She looks up at him for the first time, eyes greener and harder than ever. “What?”

Any words Bren might want to use stick in his throat. Is he sorry for her, or for him, or for the both of them together? “I don’t know where I’m going,” he says at last.

Expression puzzling minutely, Astrid says, “What do you mean?”

“I…” Bren swallows, trying to figure out what he wants to say. “I wake up in the morning. I do what is required of me. I go to sleep. I can’t – I can never see farther ahead than that.”

The admission hangs in the air between the two of them, words that once spoken can never be taken back. “I have something to show you,” says Astrid at last, the faintest hint of a tremor in her voice. And she unbuttons her blouse.

There was a time when that would have sent heat pooling in Bren’s gut, turned him weak at the knees with desire. But now, all he feels is cold as death as he takes in the line of poison-green crystals protruding from her chest and running all the way down to her navel, poking out of her stark white skin. “They’re still growing,” he says, hoarse.

Slipping the blouse off completely, Astrid turns. The cluster that begins at her neck continues all down the length of her back, bisected by the angry red wound left by the tiefling, green clusters of crystals pushing out of her spine like the crest of a dragon. “Does it hurt?” Bren asks.

“Sometimes.” Astrid shrugs her shirt back on, buttoning it up as she turns to face Bren. “Eodwulf had it worse, you know. His grew much faster.” Astrid’s eyes burn into Bren’s, holding him transfixed. “He was changing, we could all see – he couldn’t remember things, he had tempers, violent mood shifts, stopped caring about the things he enjoyed. When he hung himself, he left a note. He wanted to die with what little of himself he had left.” Astrid swallows hard. “Afterwards, Ikithon cut him open and did an autopsy. The residuum was inside his head. It was growing into the front of his brain.”

Bren has no words for that kind of horror. “I am so sorry,” he manages at last.

“It’s happening to me, too,” says Astrid. “I can feel it. Not in my head, but –” She pauses, shaking. “I’m going blind. It’s like looking through green glass. I can see magic auras and ley lines so much clearer, but someday the real world will be gone, and all I’ll have left will be this…”

She looks up at Bren, helpless, and in that moment the Astrid he remembers, the fierce, brilliant, stunningly human Astrid, breaks through. “Bren,” she whispers, and a tear rolls down her cheek. “I’m scared.”

Bren moves slowly, stepping close to Astrid and pulling her against his chest like someone else controls his arms. Clinging to him, Astrid begins to weep softly, shaking under his hands. Maybe he should comfort her, but Bren can’t think of how. Where his heart should be is a hollow echo. He holds Astrid, and says nothing. After a minute, he touches his chin to her hair.

Eventually, Astrid shudders and grows silent. Pulling away from Bren, she carefully smooths her hair back, assessing him as she tugs her cuffs down over her wrists. The hard look is back on her face, the old Astrid gone. “Good night, Bren,” she says.

Bren nods, once. The thing he came to talk to her about suddenly seems very far away and unimportant. “Good night, Astrid.” And he leaves.


	18. Act III, Scene 6

Breathing deep, Fjord fills his lungs with damp ocean air, smelling salt and seaweed and piney tar. The deck planks under his feet are strong and sturdy, and as he gazes out over the rows of ships bobbing in the Port Damali harbor under a cloudy gray sky, a sense of satisfaction fills him. He’s _home_.

More than home, in fact. Fjord casts a long, appreciative look over the curving hull of the ship, paint fresh on her sea serpent figurehead, fresh white sails tucked and rigged up as neat as can be. She’s a beauty of a frigate, sleek enough to get some speed on the waves and turn on a silver piece, but big enough to take a few hits without going to the bottom. “She’s furnished and ready to set sail on a moment’s notice,” says the ship owner, a lean, sharp-nosed human man with a gray ponytail. “All she needs is a name on her prow and a captain at the wheel.”

Fishing a leather coin purse out of his bag, Fjord tosses it to the ship owner. He catches it and frowns, hefting the purse to test its weight. “Sorry, sir, but I don’t think –”

“Look inside,” says Fjord.

The ship owner peers into the purse, his eyes going wide at the platinum coins. “Oh,” he says. “Yes. That’ll be satisfactory. Captain… what was it, again?”

 _Captain Stone_ , Fjord nearly says, except the name the orphanage gave him never did sit right. A stone, a thing of no value to be tossed aside and forgotten.

But the boys who bullied Fjord had another name for him. _Tusktooth_ , they would say, while laughing and pointing at the two bony nubs protruding above his lower lip. Squinting up at the ship, Fjord bites his lip over his regrowing tusks, remembering their jeers. Remembering how other ship captains relegated him to powder monkey and deck swabbie until Vandran took him on. Remembering Avantika’s sly jabs about his orc side, and the way the Crownsguard watched him when he entered the Empire, and the footman who turned his nose up at Fjord at the Soltryce Academy. Fjord clenches his fist, a wave striking up against the side of the pier in response. If any of them knew the power he commanded, they wouldn’t be laughing now.

Except Vandran had been different. Vandran had seen not a tubby half-orc wet behind the ears and good for nothing but servant work, but something else. Potential. _You told me I would be captain some day,_ thinks Fjord, looking up at the ship, his throat tight. _I only wish you could see me now._

“Sir?” says the ship owner.

“Tusktooth,” Fjord says slowly. “Captain Tusktooth.”

“Hm.” The ship owner nods, notating it in a leather-bound ledger. “And the name of the ship?”

The swells of the ocean crash and recede towards the horizon, the slate-gray water stretching not only away but down, down, down, to where something dark and ravenous awaits. A thrill of adrenaline runs through Fjord, his power humming inside him, and he smiles. “The _Leviathan_.”

\--

Fjord and his crew convene in the captain’s quarters of the _Leviathan_ , circling around the broad table of sturdy oak in the center of the room. “Right,” says Fjord, spreading out a map of Wildemount on the table, weighing it down at the corners. “Here’s what I’m thinkin’.” Turning to Beau, he continues, “You say Caleb’s still active in the Zemni Fields?”

Expression serious, Beau nods. “Folks are starting to call him the Red Dragon.”

It’s an apt name, considering those crystal scales and the fire in his eyes. “What about that woman?”

“The Viper, according to rumors.” Beau’s lip curls slightly. “I haven’t found out her real name.”

“Astrid,” says Fjord, sudden certainty striking him. “There were two – there were two others, studying with Caleb under Ikithon. He told me. Astrid and Eodwulf.”

Everyone gathered around the table stares at him. “I didn’t know he had been with Ikithon before,” says Yasha.

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” Fjord rubs at his jaw, feeling the stubble where his beard is starting to come in. “He was a student of his, way back when. That’s when Ikithon started with all the, you know,” and Fjord gestures at his head.

“Mind-fuckery,” supplies Beau.

“Yeah.”

Molly narrows his eyes suspiciously at Fjord, who chooses to ignore him. “We can’t all go back into the Empire,” Fjord says. “There’s too many of us, it’ll attract attention. I’m proposin’ myself, Caduceus, and maybe one other ride back in, up the way we came. Caduceus and I can disguise ourselves. Once in the Empire, we’ll find Caleb, restore his mind, and bring him back.”

“If Caduceus is going, I’m going too,” says Molly immediately.

“No, you’re not –”

Molly bares his teeth in a snarl. “Yes, I am –”

“I said _no._ ” A growl creeps into Fjord’s voice, and Caduceus’ ears flatten back against his head, his expression wary. “You’re the most noticeable out of all of us, except maybe Jester. And I need Caduceus. I need what he can do.”

Folding her arms, Beau regards Fjord thoughtfully from across the table. “Every time we’ve gone in to rescue Caleb, we haven’t had enough firepower,” she says slowly. “Why do you think it’ll work with just two of you?”

“Every time we’ve gone in, there’s been someone else,” counters Fjord. “Ikithon, or Astrid, or whatever. But if I can get him on his own, if I can just _talk_ to him –”

“You think you can change his mind, just like that?” Molly snaps his fingers. “Undo months of brainwashing with a heartfelt conversation –”

“Not all at once, but I aim to make a crack in it, at least,” says Fjord, frowning. “Just enough to get him to come with me –”

“And then what? Chain him up and sling him over your saddle while you gallop back to Port Damali?”

The air crackles with tension; Jester looks from Fjord to Molly with her lower lip caught in her teeth, while Nott slinks down until only her eyes are visible over the table. “Actually, I got enough gold left over, I was thinkin’ I’d buy another boat,” says Fjord evenly. “A houseboat. Sail it down the river all the way from the Zemni Fields into Port Damali. Give Caleb somewhere nice and quiet and out of the public eye to recover.”

Molly grins, showing white fangs in a sarcastic display. “Oh, a boat, I’m sure that’ll be lovely.”

“Molly,” murmurs Caduceus, a hand on his thigh.

Leaning forward with his elbows on the table, Fjord squints at Molly. “You got a problem?”

“Listen, it’s not that I don’t want you to get Caleb back, I really do.” Molly lifts both his hands up, palms outward. “I’m just saying, you might want to consider what shape he’ll be in when you do.”

“That’s my business,” says Fjord flatly. “I’ll handle it.”

“It’s not just your business, it’s Deuce’s business, that’s why you’re bringing him. And if it’s his business, then it’s mine too.” Molly glares at Fjord.

Caduceus clears his throat. “I think we’re arguing about a problem we don’t know exists,” he says. “One step at a time. Let’s just get to Caleb first.”

“I’ve already died, _twice_ ,” snaps Molly. “I don’t want Caduceus getting hurt because of you.”

Putting a hand at the back of Molly’s neck, Caduceus rubs gently, and Molly drops his head with a groan. “I’ll be all right,” Caduceus promises quietly.

“I want to go with you,” offers Yasha. “I, um. I know a little bit of what it’s like. What Caleb’s going through. I want to help him.”

She meets Fjord’s eyes, gaze clear and steady, and he nods. “All right,” he says. “Caduceus and Yasha’ll be with me. The rest of you…” He sighs, looking around at Beau and Jester and Molly and Nott. “You don’t have to stay with me. Hell, I know it maybe ain’t the smart thing to do. But I need a crew for this ship.” He looks to Molly, who runs a hand through his tangled curls. “I figure you’re in it as long as Caduceus is.”

“Heh.” Molly smiles wryly and gives Caduceus’ hand on his neck a squeeze. “Yeah.”

“And you, I suppose you’re not lettin’ me out of your sight as long as I got those orbs,” says Fjord to Beau.

She snorts. “Not if I can help it.”

Fjord turns to Nott, who has climbed back up in her seat again. “You still want Caleb to teach you magic, right?”

Nodding, Nott says, “He owes me.”

That leaves Jester, who laces her fingers together, mouth twisted uncertainly. “What about you?” Fjord says. “You got a life outside of all of this, you don’t need to stick with me.”

“I miss my mom,” admits Jester. “But Fjord, I can’t just _leave_ you, not now. I want to make sure Caleb’s okay.”

Fjord can’t help smiling a little, affection warming his heart. “Tell you what,” he says. “Once we get Caleb back, we’ll sail out of here right down to Nicodranus and drop you on your momma’s doorstep.” Jester gasps and beams at him, hands curled under her cheeks. “All right. Beau, I’m leavin’ you in charge while I’m gone. You’re quartermaster.”

Her expression turns panicked. “What?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell you what’s to be done. Mostly I need you to hire a crew.” Fjord slides off his seat and leans over the table, looking at the little black letters on the map that spell out _Zemni Fields._ Soon, he promises Caleb. I’m coming to you, darlin’. “Let’s see this thing through.”

\--

The _Tide’s Breath_ burns around Bren and he watches the flames dispassionately, sparks rising like stars up into the sky. Maybe the half-orc will appear again, and he looks along the deck. But no dark shape of a man approaches.

Ah well. Probably for the better. It hurts to think of this Fjord, memories Bren can’t examine all pushing up against each other. He turns.

And comes face-to-face with himself.

Except _himself_ looks different, hair longer and tangled, stubble on his jaw, long coat filthy and brown. Bren frowns, not sure what this change in the dream means. “Bren?” he says.

His other self stares down at his hands and then up at Bren, blue eyes wide. “Why?” he rasps. “Why did you do this to us?”

“I… I had to. To survive.” This is wrong. This is very wrong. Bren swallows down panic. “Who are you?”

“I’m… you.” The other Bren tilts his head, and tears fill his eyes. “I am so sorry…”

Bren wakes with a start, heart hammering and the bedsheets twisted uncomfortably around him. Something’s wrong, is all he can think, panic driving his heart into his throat. Something’s gone wrong. What’s wrong with me?

He wants to scream, in anger and frustration and fear, but he trained himself not to scream a long time ago. So instead he stares at the ceiling, feeling his pulse gradually slow and his breath return to normal.

Just before Bren falls asleep, a memory comes to him. Cool seawater lapping at him and a gentle hand on his face. It brings peace, if only for a moment, and he sleeps.

\--

Silent and motionless, Bren stands in the corner as Archmage Da’leth snaps at Ikithon, “You need to control yourself, Trent. Things have gone too far!”

From his seat behind his desk, Ikithon looks coolly up at Da’leth. “Have they?”

Drawing back, Da’leth folds his arms across his chest. “I still agree with you, the Zemnians are a problem,” he says tersely. “But they need containment, and careful restriction. What you are doing – the relentless arrests, the torture, the public _burnings_ – you are inciting them towards rebellion, not quelling it.” He glances over at Bren, expression hard, before saying, “Control your pets or I will.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” hisses Ikithon, rising, his eyes glacial. “You don’t know these people like I do, you don’t know how to handle them –”

“Ah,” says Da’leth smoothly. “That’s right. Your mother was Zemnian, wasn’t she?”

“My mother was a _whore_.”

Da’leth raises his eyebrows, undeterred by the fury in Ikithon’s expression. “Who spread her legs for every soldier in red, I’m sure. And then she popped you out, didn’t she? What a charming child you must have been.” Sweeping his long blue robes around him, Da’leth strides towards the study doors. “Control yourself, Ikithon,” he warns as he leaves. “Before I have to step in.” And the doors shut behind him.

Ikithon sits in silence for a moment before slamming his hands on the desk in frustration, Bren narrowly managing not to flinch. Muttering under his breath, Ikithon opens one of the carved wooden cabinets and pulls out a cut glass decanter and tumbler, the square bottle half-full of clear liquid. He pours himself a drink, knocks it back, and pours himself another as he returns to his desk, falling into his seat. “Bren,” says Ikithon, beckoning. “Come here.”

Slowly, Bren approaches. Ikithon takes another gulp of alcohol, his eyes burning. “What does he know,” he growls, gazing into nothing. “What does he know about _anything –_ ”

He glances up, as of only just noticing Bren standing over him. “Bren, come here,” he says again, and holds the glass up to him. “Drink.”

Obediently, Bren takes the glass, but Ikithon doesn’t let go, his papery fingers touching Bren’s. Bren has to awkwardly half-crouch to take a drink, tilting his head back as the plum brandy burns down his throat. “Good,” whispers Ikithon, watching him with a strange intensity. “Good.” He takes the glass back, drains the remainder, and pours in more brandy a little sloppily. “Oh, Bren…”

To his alarm, Bren realizes Ikithon’s eyes have gone watery and red-rimmed, his nose beginning to flush as well. “Sir?”

Ikithon’s hand closes on the front of Bren’s coat, yanking him down to his knees. The cool rim of the glass presses against Bren’s lips, and he drinks again, the fruity heat of the liquor rising to his head, and then the glass is gone. “He doesn’t understand,” whispers Ikithon, his thumb stroking over Bren’s cheek. “He doesn’t know what it’s like, but you, Bren, darling boy, wonderful child, you do…”

Bren swallows hard, sick dread warring with the warmth under his skin. The brandy is strong, stronger than he’s had in a long while, and he fights to keep his thoughts clear. “Understand what, sir?”

Again Ikithon drinks, and then gives more to Bren, and drinks again. Bren’s cheeks and ears tingle, his head beginning to feel light, and he struggles to retain focus. Everything is so _warm_. Fire burns inside him.

Ikithon’s hand runs through his hair, scratching lines along his scalp, and Bren shudders and closes his eyes. _I want this to be over,_ he prays silently. _Please let this be over._

Fabric rustles, and then somehow Ikithon is on the floor with Bren. He pulls Bren close, damp cheek pressed against Bren’s, breath stinking of plum brandy, hands fumbling at Bren’s neck, side, hip. “As long as they’re out there,” whispers Ikithon, tickling Bren’s ear, “we will never be free, you and I, as long as those vermin _persist_ …”

His hand slides under Bren’s coat and Bren retreats out of his body, into the heat of his thoughts, the flames rising up around him. “We will never be _safe_ ,” he hears Ikithon say. “Do you understand?”

 _No,_ screams Caleb, fear and anger igniting inside him. _No, no, NO_ –

Bren’s mother and father screamed when he burned them alive, and the Zemnian prisoners screamed when Bren incinerated them, and the women in towns screamed when he led away their sons and husbands for questioning. Bren gasps, clarity burning through the haze of alcohol. It’ll never stop, he realizes, tears springing to his eyes. Not until they’re all dead. Only then will it be over.

“Do you understand?” says Ikithon, his lips on Bren’s neck. “Do you?”

“Yes,” whispers Bren, flames licking at his soul. Only now does he see what Ikithon and Astrid and everyone else was trying to tell him all along. “I understand.”

\--

“Fjord,” says Caduceus, pointing. “Look.”

Fjord follows his finger to where a column of smoke rises in the distance above the leafless gray forest, and frowns. If he remembers the map, the town of Rerik is close in that direction. “Well, that ain’t good.”

Reining her horse in, Yasha squints up at the smoke. “Do you think that’s him?”

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” says Fjord grimly. “Caduceus. Can you go check it out?”

“Mm-hm.” Tossing his reins to Fjord, Caduceus transforms directly from the back of his horse, turning into a pale gray owl and ghosting up into the sunset sky. In a few minutes he’s gone from sight.

Sighing, Fjord adjusts his seat, the beast horse shifting underneath him as it searches for grazeable foliage. “Maybe it’s not him,” offers Yasha, although she doesn’t sound certain. “Maybe it is, uh… a fire monster.”

“A fire monster,” says Fjord, deadpan.

“Yeah, with burning eyes, and fiery wings, and…” Yasha trails off. “Oh. I guess that is kind of like Caleb anyway.”

The woods rise up on either side of the road, trees reaching their bare branches up into the sky. Barely any snow is left, but a bone-chilling dampness hangs in the air. Fjord keeps a wary eye on both the road and the dimness of the forest around him, not wanting to be ambushed by a starving wolf pack or a squad of Crownsguard. They only had a little trouble on the way up, but he’s not keen on more. Especially not at the moment.

Just as Fjord starts getting antsy, Caduceus flies back, returning to his firbolg form as he lands. “The village is on fire,” he reports, grave. “Multiple buildings are up in flames. I didn’t see Caleb, but I didn’t want to get too close.”

“I’m gonna assume it’s him.” Fjord gathers his reins, jerking the horse’s head up from where it found an evergreen bush to chew on. He does not let himself think about the implications of Caleb sending an entire town from his homeland up in flames. “Let’s go.”

As they ride, the forest thins out and gives way to scattered trees and bushes. Rerik sits between the rolling hills, smoke billowing up into the sky, and Fjord can just make out tiny dark figures hurrying towards the road. “Shit,” he says, and spurs the beast horse into a run.

With Caduceus and Yasha hot on his heels, Fjord gallops towards the burning town. The fire lights the land around it in orange, the roaring audible even from here and the smoke blocking out the sky. As Fjord approaches the first fleeing resident, he pulls up hard. “Ma’am!” he says, and the woman turns, tears streaking the ash on her face. A child of about four or five cries in her arms. “What’s happenin’?”

“It’s the, ah –” Her hand flutters towards her throat and she swallows, staring desperately back at the flames. “The mage from the Empire, the Red Dragon, he – he –” Her face convulses with a sob, and she clutches her child. “My husband is back there –”

Riding up beside Fjord, Caduceus says, “Is your child hurt?”

The woman gasps as she sees the firbolg and the barbarian woman beside him. “No,” she stammers. “No, ah, he’s all right.”

Fjord kicks his horse in the sides and it charges forward, until Fjord can smell the ash and smoke and the buildings draw near, terrified townsfolk running to either side of the road in front of him. “No!” screams another woman, held back by two men as she lunges towards a burning house. “Stefan! _Stefan!_ ”

Fjord’s horse shies and stops abruptly, nearly unseating him as it squeals and tosses its head, afraid of the flames. Yasha struggles to control her mount as well, but Caduceus jumps off of his and runs to the screaming woman. “Who’s in there?” he demands.

“Our son,” says one of the men, tears streaking his face, while his wife keeps calling her child’s name. “But it’s too late –”

“We’ll see about that,” says Caduceus, with the closest thing to anger Fjord’s ever seen on his face, and charges into the building.

In a split second, Fjord knows what to do. “Yasha!” he yells, and dismounts, tossing his reins to her. She catches them in midair, startled. “Stay with Caduceus, get as many people out as you can. I’ll find Caleb. Wait for me in the woods with the horses.”

Yasha gives him a nod. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It’s got to be him and me.” Fjord turns and looks into the roaring inferno, the homes and stores blazing bright. “Always has been. Always will be.”

And he strides in.

\--

They keep _running_. Bren wants to scream at them to stop, don’t they understand, this is _mercy_ that he’s granting them, a quick death in a fiery blaze rather than prolonged torture in Ikithon’s dungeons, their children turned into monsters and fed into the war machine. The fires rage all around him, brilliant in orange and gold, the searing heat a comfort.

Some part of him, though, keeps howling, _THIS ISN’T RIGHT THIS ISN’T RIGHT THIS ISN’T RIGHT_ , over and over in agony. Bren thinks it’s the part of him that desperately wants a cool touch on his cheek and the press of lips to his hair and he refuses to listen, because if he lets it back up it will tear him in two –

It will all be over soon, he promises himself, watching another house go up in a roar of hot air and flame _. Alles wird bald vorbei sein_.

Maybe, then, the screaming will stop.

\--

The heat is astounding. Fjord can feel his skin burning as he walks through the blazing buildings, down what was once the main street. The closer he gets to the center, the worse the heat gets, until he has to summon a mist to protect himself that evaporates almost instantly and needs to be created again, and again.

He reaches the town square. Sparks and embers fly through the air, dancing on spirals of hot wind. The scent of ash and burning bone fills Fjord’s nose, and the roaring of flames surrounds him. In the middle stands a dark figure, silhouetted against the bright red-gold of fire, flames wreathing his hands. He stands still, not looking at Fjord but at the burning buildings. “Caleb,” says Fjord, and his parched lips split with a sting of pain. “Listen to me.”

Caleb turns slowly to look at him. His eyes glow with the same fiery light.

Fjord holds his hands up, palms out, approaching slowly like the first time they ever met. “C’mon, Caleb,” he says. “You know this ain’t right. You know this ain’t you.”

“No?” rasps Caleb. “Then what am I?”

 _My heart_ , Fjord wants to say, but he doesn’t think that’ll go over well. “Your name is Caleb Widogast,” he says. “It’s not the name you were born with, but it’s the name you chose. It’s the name you told to me. It’s the name you served at my side under, and the name I said when I wakened you from nightmares –”

Anger twists Caleb’s face, the first real emotion Fjord’s seen. “ _You_?” he hisses. “You, who kidnapped me, who – who –” But the words choke him and he cuts off with a grimace, clutching his head.

Fjord steps towards him again. “You know that ain’t true,” he says, voice barely louder than the flames. One step, and then another. Slowly bringing him closer. “You can’t even say it without hurting. Caleb.”

“ _No._ ” Caleb throws a fireball at Fjord; he barely raises a wall of water in time, and the elements collide in a burst of steam. “They told me about you. You’re lying –”

Another step closer. Fjord’s heart pounds in his chest, throat dry. “I’m not. They are. Ikithon, and Astrid, and all of them, they’re just tryin’ to control you –”

“Stop it!” Two more fireballs, and Fjord ducks one and blocks the other with water, bringing him two steps closer. “You’re – lying –”

“I ain’t.”

“I said _STOP_!” Fire streaks from Caleb, and Fjord has a split second to cocoon himself in water before fire envelops him. Orange heat fills his vision, the water shimmering against his skin, steam hissing. Holding his breath, Fjord walks forward, and when the flames and water fall away he’s nearly in arm’s reach of Caleb. His red-gold hair dances in the wind, and his eyes are wild.

“You know the truth,” says Fjord, low. “Underneath all that _shit_ he filled your head with.”

Tears glisten on Caleb’s cheeks before the fire evaporates them. “No,” he says, voice shaking, “you’re wrong –”

“Caleb,” says Fjord, closing the distance between them. “Cay.” He reaches out and grabs Caleb’s arms, pulling him in, and flames erupt from Caleb.

Water flows up from the ground, swirling around Caleb, extinguishing the fire, as Fjord holds him close to his chest. “I’ve got you,” says Fjord, his face pressed to Caleb’s smoke-smelling hair. “I’m not lettin’ go.”

Clutching at him, Caleb screams in grief and rage, fire rising all around him. Fjord hangs on tight and keeps the water flowing, steam surrounding them as Caleb burns in his arms and Fjord keeps putting out the flames. He won’t let go, even though his eyebrows singe and his skin burns and each time the fire rises it licks at him with pain before he can quell it. “I’m here.”

How long they stay there, Fjord doesn’t know, his entire world consumed in water and fire. His muscles ache with exhaustion and his throat is dry and then he realizes, it’s over. Caleb clings to him, shaking, all flames gone. He’s naked, his black coat burned away, and steam rises from his sooty skin. Those strange crystals along his neck and forearms no longer glow, dark and inert instead. “Fjord?” he gasps, in a tiny, hoarse voice.

Fjord nearly sobs in relief, folding his arms around Caleb. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Shivers ripple over Caleb, his face hidden in Fjord’s chest. “I can’t – my head – it hurts –”

“I know, darlin’, I know.” Around them, the inferno of the burning village darkens, the flames slowly subsiding. “We’ll get that fixed.”

\--

He doesn’t know what happened.

Because the half-orc should have stopped, he should have burned, and yet somehow he couldn’t kill him, and his _head hurt_ , and the half-orc’s arms wrapped around him, and it felt _safe_. Safer than he’s felt in a long, long time. And it shouldn’t have felt that way, but it did, and the flames went away and the thing inside him that screamed so desperately finally fell silent.

He doesn’t know what happened, he doesn’t know what’s real, he doesn’t even know his own name (Caleb, the half-orc calls him, or sometimes Cay), but he trusts this half-orc (Fjord, his brain says, his name is Fjord), and he doesn’t understand _why_ he trusts him but his head spins, still hurting, and Caleb doesn’t think he can fight anymore.

The half-orc takes off his long outer coat, wraps Caleb (Bren?) in it. He walks with the half-orc, who guides him through the dark hills with a hand on his back. The rocks and twigs of the woodlands stab his bare feet, but Caleb keeps silent, stumbling in an effort to keep up. The half-orc has long legs and moves quickly, and Caleb doesn’t know where he’s going, but has to follow or be lost in the woods at night. So he walks, ignoring the pain. But Caleb stumbles and steps hard on a broken branch, and it pierces his foot, and he can’t help the cry that escapes his lips.

The half-orc stops, a dark shape under the stars, and Bren holds his breath, bracing himself for a reprimand. But instead he kneels, and a shiver runs through Caleb’s stomach, though he doesn’t know why. The half-orc touches Caleb’s feet, and says, stricken, “Oh, _Caleb_.”

Bren closes his eyes, waiting for dismissal as the half-orc stands. But instead strong arms sweep his feet out from underneath and lift him, holding him against the half-orc’s chest. As the world falls away, Caleb lets his aching head drop to the pirate’s solid shoulder. He smells strongly of smoke, his leathers faintly damp.

 _What are you doing?_ shrieks the furious echo of Ikithon in his head. _Are you a fool? Fight back!_

Bren forces himself to lift a shaking hand, reaching for fire, but nothing is left inside him. “Hang in there,” says the half-orc (Fjord), and Caleb lets his hand fall, exhausted. “We’ll be home soon.”

Home brings up the smell of seawater and wind in his hair and parchment under his fingers and the musty smell of libraries and home burned down with him inside it and he doesn’t have a home and Bren screws his face up against the stabbing pain in his skull. Don’t think about it. Don’t think.

Horses whicker, hooves stamping softly on the ground. “Is that him?” says a voice Bren doesn’t know, low and female. “Is he all right?”

“We’ll see,” says the half-orc grimly. Bren hunches in around himself. “He’s all right for now.”

More hands lift Bren, and he feels the warm quivering hide of a horse, hears it snort and champ its bit underneath him. Then the half-orc is pressed up close against his back, holding him close. “Hiya!” he says, and reins snap.

The pounding of hooves is steady and rhythmic as drumbeats. Caleb drifts in the dark and the cold, letting it carry him away, away, away. The pain in his head is hot and heavy, skin burning like a fever. He comes back to himself here and there, seeing gray woods, his head lolling on the half-orc’s shoulder, and always the horse, cantering down the pale road. He drifts again.

Eventually the hooves stop. A new sound in the dark, instead – lapping waves, too quiet to be an ocean. The half-orc dismounts and pulls Caleb off the horse and back into his arms. Cool arms. Bren shivers, heat crawling over his skin like little ants.

A door opens, closes. Footsteps creak on wood. The night breeze disappears. Bren is laid down on a bed, and though his body stops moving, his head continues to spin. Voices, deep and indistinct, confer on the edge of his hearing. A cup is held to his lips, a hand supporting the back of his head as he drinks. Hot tea, and whiskey, and something sweet.

He loses himself to blackness.


	19. Act IV, Scene 1

Groaning, Bren (Caleb?) wakes. His head pulses with a dull but steady pain. Opening his eyes, he takes stock of the unfamiliar room around him: low-ceilinged and plain, built out of dark wood, with a narrow window in the wall above his bed. To his left, the rest of the room is not very wide either, with cabinets built into the wall, and this plus the way the room rocks slightly tells Caleb (Bren?) he’s below decks on a boat. The thought makes his stomach curl queasily. At the back of his head lurks a dark, snarling tangle, and he knows if he looks at it directly it will consume him, so he stays away.

Instead, he takes stock. His body is in middling condition. He feels tired and drained all over, as if recovering from a severe illness. His torn feet and blistered palms have been healed, and someone has dressed him in a shirt and breeches, clean but too large. An amulet has been placed around his neck as well, a simple metal coin that Bren recognizes as a protection against scrying, and the thought eases him slightly. Sitting up, Caleb examines his arms. The residuum sits inert, the edges of his skin feeling raw and tender. The reason why also gets pushed to the back of his head, not to be touched.

Heavy footsteps sound and a door behind him opens. The half-orc, Fjord enters, ducking his head under the low doorframe. He pauses when he sees Bren awake. “Hey,” he says, soft but wary.

Caleb watches him, and doesn’t think.

“You know who I am?”

He knows Fjord’s name, at least. His own, he is less sure of. Bren nods.

A small relieved smile touches Fjord’s face, and he draws a stool up to Caleb’s bedside, seating himself. “Do you know where you are? How you got here?”

The knowledge is too far back, too close to the tangle. Caleb (Bren?) shakes his head.

“On my boat, on the Tyodan River. We’re nearly out of the Empire, heading for Port Damali.” He pauses, waiting for a response. His eyes are yellow, and this is strange, although Caleb can’t think of what other color they should be. When Bren (Caleb?) stays silent, Fjord frowns and says, “Can you talk?”

“Ja,” croaks Caleb through his rusted throat.

“Oh, good,” sighs Fjord, and his shoulders relax. This puzzles Bren; why does he care? Why is he relieved that Bren can talk?

The thought tugs on filaments, pulling the tangle forward until it pulses in his skull. Fjord cares about him, and yet he used Bren, but Caleb _trusts_ him, and it presses so painfully on the inside of his head that he hunches over, grinding the heels of his palms into his forehead. “Caleb?” says Fjord.

“I’m fine,” he grits out. His stomach churns, the pulsing in his head so painful it makes him nauseous. He draws his knees up and squeezes his eyes tight, breathing hard through his nose. But his head swims horribly and the nausea swells inside him, pressing into his throat, and Caleb leans over the side of the bed just in time to vomit onto the floor.

Fjord looms over Bren, a hand on his back. Bren (Caleb?) remembers a hand in his hair, callused fingers on his scalp, and gags again, bile dripping from his lips. All mixed up, turned wrong-way out, and his head _hurts_ – “Easy,” says Fjord, rubbing circles on his back, “you’re all right –”

It feels like nails driving through his temples. Clutching the sheets, Caleb gasps for air, grimacing. Each wave of pain is worse, and he falls back into the bed, half-blind, broken noises escaping him. “Caleb?” says Fjord, worried – is that his name – his name was _Bren_ –

The hurt is so big it has to come out through his mouth as a raw scream, metal spines piercing his head, blinding, burning, and he arches his back and cries out again. “Whoa, hey, Caleb –” says Fjord, cupping Bren’s face, and his touch is like ice and Bren whimpers and twists away. “ _CADUCEUS!_ ” Fjord roars.

Another scream tears out of Bren, and he throws his head back into the pillows, writhing. The pain is a barrier between him and the rest of the world, a pulsing red circle that drives everything else away. Fjord holds him down, keeping him from twisting, and Bren claws at the mattress.

More footsteps hurry down, and a deep, gravelly voice says, “What’s wrong?”

“I dunno, I was talking to him and he started having some kind of fit –” Fjord sounds frantic, he’s worried about Bren (Caleb?), and a knotted string in Bren’s brain pulls so tight he screams. Cold rough hands brush over his face. “I don’t know –”

“Out, you’re confusing him,” orders the deep voice, and the cold hands disappear (don’t go) (don’t stay). It hurts in Bren’s skull, it _hurts_ , get it _out_ , and he claws at his head –

“Nah ah ah, none of that,” and a large hand encircles Bren’s wrists, pinning them to his chest. Bren whines, heels pushing into the mattress. Another hand descends on his forehead, and the deep voice begins chanting, low and slow. Cool, clean waves, like the taste of mint, ripple outwards from the heavy touch. With each wave the screw-tight pressure on Caleb’s head eases until finally – finally – he can take a deep breath and drop back into the mattress, a sob catching in his throat. Sweat soaks his clothing.

“There,” says the deep voice, the hand releasing his wrists. “That’s better.”

Panting, Caleb opens his eyes. A firbolg sits on the edge of the mattress, with a long, high-cheekboned face, his skin covered in a pale gray fuzz, his hair a shocking pink fall over one shoulder. He wears a shirt of some flowing, shimmering green material. “I don’t remember you,” Caleb says hoarsely.

The firbolg smiles, gem-like eyes tightening to crescents. “No, I don’t imagine you would,” he says, and holds out a hand. “Caduceus Clay. Pleasure to meet you.”

Feeling vaguely like he stumbled into the Feywild, Caleb takes his hand; the firbolg’s grip is firm but gentle. He misses his cat. “I think you know who I am,” says Caleb. _Please, tell me who I am._

“Oh, yes.” Caduceus smiles benevolently at him like some sort of strange nature deity. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”

Exhausted, Caleb lets his hand drop to the blanket. His head spins again, but with fatigue, and his throat is bone-dry. “I could use some water.” He is ravenously hungry too, but doubts he could hold food down.

Rising, Caduceus opens one of the cupboards in the wall and takes out a ceramic cup. It’s empty, but when he brings it to Caleb’s mouth it’s full of cool, clear water. Caleb drinks in sips until he’s drained the last drops, and falls back against the pillows with a sigh. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The aching tangle isn’t gone, but it’s receded enough that Caleb can ignore it. Caduceus leaves him to get some sleep, and Caleb drifts in and out of awareness again, listening to the creaking of the boat and the lapping of the water outside his bed. Sometime later, when the light coming through the single window is tinted ruby, Caduceus returns with a bowl filled with boiled wheat and stewed carrots and squash, and holds it out to Caleb with a fork. “Here,” he says, and smiles.

Bren takes it hesitantly; it seems like an enormous amount of food. “This is for me?” he asks stupidly.

“Yeah. There’s more if you’re still hungry after you finish.” Caduceus smiles again and leaves.

There won’t be a need of that, thinks Bren, hands cupped around the warmth of the wooden bowl. Sure enough, even once he pushes aside the guilt at being able to eat as much as he wants, he only makes it about halfway through the bowl before his stomach knots up in protest. Setting it aside on a little shelf by his bed, Bren curls up on his side, feeling strange and hollow despite his full stomach, and oddly close to tears. But the waves lap against the side of the boat, murmuring, and the water rocks him gently. His limbs feel heavy, and he sleeps again.

This time when Caleb wakes up, it’s to silver moonlight and Fjord seated by his bed, watching him. Caleb feels like he’s seeing double, two identical yet separate overlapping images in his mind. Friend. Foe. Lover. Captor. Clearing his throat, he sits up, facing Fjord. “What will you do with me?”

Surprise flickers over Fjord’s face. “Do? Nothing,” he says. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“No?” Caleb (Bren) draws himself up, fingers prickling. “Then why did you –” and the tangle in his head pulses and he has to stop, pressing a palm to his forehead, breathing hard.

“Hey, it’s all right,” says Fjord, reaching out for him and then drawing his hand back, eyebrows furrowed anxiously. Caleb takes a deep breath, and then another, pushing the tangle away. “You okay?”

The laugh that bursts out of Caleb is scratchy and uncontrolled, and when’s the last time he laughed? He can’t remember, and that makes him laugh more and more until he hunches over with hysterical sobs or laughter, he can’t tell which. Aware of Fjord watching him, Caleb finally manages to control himself, wiping tears from his eyes. “I am a little fucked up,” he says at last.

“Yeah,” says Fjord, with a sad little laugh of his own. “Um. Caduceus said that asking you what you remember might not have been a good idea.”

Caleb hiccups. “Maybe not.”

“I can leave, if you want.” Fjord’s concern is evident in his voice and eyes, his words not those of a captor. Except Ikithon had sounded just as concerned when he told Bren of Fjord’s dark deeds, and he was also supposed to be a friend, and he said Fjord wasn’t, but –

“Hey, Caleb,” says Fjord, low and urgent, a hand on Bren’s arm. “Breathe, okay? Breathe.”

Leaning his aching head in his hands, Bren closes his eyes and tries to do that. Fjord’s thumb rubs over his bicep, and Bren times his inhales and exhales to that slow back-and-forth. The pounding pulse in his temples becomes dull and manageable.

“Look, uhhh… I know I ain’t supposed to ask, but I gotta know what I’m working with, Cay – Caleb,” Fjord quickly corrects himself. Something in Caleb’s chest flutters at the nickname, like fledgling bird wings. “Who do you think I am?”

Some things he knows. “Fjord Stone,” says Caleb, reading off the page in his mind. “Captain of the _Tide’s Breath_. Except,” and he frowns. “She went down, didn’t she?”

“Yeah.” Fjord regards him seriously, leaning his elbows on his knees. “She got blown up.”

Memory flashes with startling clarity, Caleb approaching a figure on the nighttime deck. “Sabian,” he says. “He said Avantika promised him the ship. He said if he couldn’t have it, then neither could you –”

He stares at Fjord, heart pounding, because he _remembers_. Fjord’s expression morphs, from shock to a dark anger. “Sabian?” he says. “You sure?”

Caleb nods.

“Motherfucker.” Fjord looks away, jaw working, moonlight picking out his scars and the streak of white in his dark hair. “All right. We’ll hunt him down.” He sighs and turns back to Caleb. “What about who I am to you?”

The words on the page blur and smear, written over each other. “That is more difficult,” Caleb manages.

“Yeah,” sighs Fjord, heavily, sadly. “I figured it might be.” He rubs at his bearded jaw. “Can I, uh, ask… what exactly…”

Caleb (Bren) licks his dry lips and looks down at his hands on the coarse-woven blanket, figuring out how to say what he means without reaching too deep. “Lover or captor,” he finally forces out. “I am… I am not sure which. They are both there. In my head.” He gestures with a trembling hand to his temple.

“Captor?” repeats Fjord, frowning. “You mean, like I… took advantage of you?”

A small, humorless smile twists Bren’s lips. “In all ways magical, physical, and sexual.”

Fjord’s head jerks up as Bren’s meaning sinks in, and he rises abruptly, pacing around the tiny room. He’s angry, Bren thinks, and his throat tightens in fear. “That sick son of a bitch,” mutters Fjord, fists clenching. “Evandra’s tits, Caleb, I – I knew it was bad, but I…” The anger on his face turns to heartbreak. “No wonder you’re scared of me.”

“I…” What does Bren (Caleb) say to that? The anger in Fjord’s voice terrifies him. But he desperately wants to feel Fjord’s arms around him again. “I don’t know.”

Fjord regards him sadly. “All right,” he says softly. “We’ll figure it out, don’t you worry. You should sleep.”

Caleb can’t argue with that, and nods and rubs at his head where the pounding has started again.

“Your head hurts?” says Fjord, and Caleb glances up at him, startled he noticed. “I’ll get Caduceus to come down.”

“That – that is okay, you don’t need to,” stammers Caleb, as Fjord starts to walk out.

Fjord pauses with one foot on the stairs. “Yeah, I do,” he says, a strange, hesitant expression on his face. “Night, Cay – Caleb.”

Caleb’s throat tightens with emotion: fear or tenderness? “Good night, Fjord,” he manages.

Expression unreadable in the dark, Fjord watches him for a moment longer, and then nods and ascends up the stairs, the door closing behind him.

\--

Fjord doesn’t find Caduceus inside the boat, so he heads up on deck. Sure enough, there’s Caduceus, sitting cross-legged near the prow and watching the moonlight glisten on the river. On the bank, Yasha walks down the towpath with the horses, a long rope attaching the canal boat to her shaggy roan charger so it can tow the boat along. “Hey,” says Fjord, approaching.

“Hey.”

Sighing, Fjord settles down beside Caduceus. “Can you go down? Caleb’s head is hurtin’ again.”

“Yeah, sure.” Caduceus looks over at him, silver light reflecting off the backs of his rectangular pupils. “What about you, how are you?”

“Me? Wh– yeah, I’m fine,” says Fjord, frowning. “Why?”

Caduceus’ lips curl understandingly. “You’ve had a long couple of days. And seeing Caleb like this can’t be easy for you.”

It’s been fuckin’ awful, but Fjord doesn’t have anything to complain about. “I’m all right.”

He’s aware of Caduceus watching him, patient as the woods, and the stress and the strain of everything start swelling up inside Fjord again. The burning village and the tearstained faces of children, the fire burning in Caleb’s eyes, the desperation in his voice, the way he cried in agony, Caleb, Caleb, _Caleb_ –

A shuddery gasp escapes Fjord and he wraps his arms around his knees, watching the river. Still calm, Caduceus says, “May I touch you?”

Fjord’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “All right.”

Caduceus’ large hand comes down on the back of Fjord’s neck, kneading gently, and a full-body shiver runs through Fjord. Knots he didn’t even know he was holding loosen, and Fjord gasps again, fingers digging into his biceps. “It’s okay,” says Caduceus. “You can let it out.”

A short, bitter laugh barks out of Fjord. “Let what out?”

Moving his hand down to the tight triangle between Fjord’s shoulder blades, Caduceus says, “Everything. You did it. You brought Caleb back. You can let it go.”

“It’s not –” Another laugh that’s more like a sob catches in Fjord’s throat. “You heard him screamin’ last night, he ain’t okay, this ain’t over –”

Warm and heavy, Caduceus’ arm encircles his shoulders. “I know. I know. But you did it. Let it go.”

Fjord lets out a shuddering breath, his face buried into the crook of his arm and his hand fisted in his hair. A sob hitches in his chest, and then another, and another, all the fear and grief and relief pushing up between the chinks in his armor until it has to escape him in half-stifled, broken cries. Hot tears rolling down his cheeks, Fjord presses his forehead into his wrist and bares his teeth and cracks apart into pieces.

Eventually he quiets with a hiccup, the reflection of moonlight on the river blurring in his tear-damp eyes. “There,” says Caduceus, and pats him on the shoulder. “Feel better?”

“A little.” Mostly Fjord feels embarrassed at breaking down in front of someone else like that. “But you will – you will fix him, right?”

Caduceus looks at him, very seriously. “Fjord,” he says, and the tone of his voice is _not_ what Fjord wants to hear.

“Tell me you can fix him,” Fjord growls, and the waves slap alongside the boat. “You said you could –”

“I said I could _help_ ,” clarifies Caduceus gently. “And help I will. But Ikithon had a long time to do a lot of damage, and I can’t just snap my fingers and undo that. Caleb needs time. And a safe place to heal. How he recovers depends on me, and you, but mostly him. And he will probably never be quite the same.”

It’s what Fjord should have known, it was too optimistic to expect Caleb could say a few divine words and undo months of Ikithon fucking around with Caleb’s head, but it’s a punch to the gut all the same. “All right,” he says. “Fine. I understand. But his head’s hurtin’ now, so could you, uh…”

“Yeah,” says Caduceus, and smiles. “That I can do.”

\--

On what Bren counts as his second or third morning in the boat, he’s not sure, he feels steady enough to get up and walk around his little cabin, and kneels on the bed to peer out the narrow window. He sees gray water rippling by, and a muddy riverbank with a tow path, the trees along the shore the color of slate. Here and there, though, Caleb catches a faint glimpse of green, the veil of spring coming to the forest.

“Hey,” says Fjord, and Bren starts, turning around guiltily. But Fjord only regards him with a fond smile. “Good to see you up on your feet.”

Bren clears his throat, stepping off the bed and tugging his sleeves over the residuum crystals by reflex. “What is it?” he asks, barely refraining from adding “sir” at the end.

“Just wanted to let you know we’re comin’ up on the river gates out of the Empire, and they’ll probably search the boat.” Fjord rubs at the back of his neck. “If you can disguise yourself, or we might be able to find a hidin’ place on here, or…”

 _They’ll let me through, I’m one of Ikithon’s mages_ , Bren wants to retort haughtily – except he isn’t anymore _._ “Right,” says Caleb hoarsely. He’s going to have to remember how to hide again, and touches the amulet around his neck on reflex, reassuring himself it’s there. “I can disguise myself.”

“Good,” says Fjord, relieved. “I’ll let you know when we’re about to go through.”

“Do you have any, uh –” says Caleb, and then stops, with half a laugh at himself. “No, never mind.”

Fjord frowns, saying, “No, it’s all right, you can tell me –”

“I was going to ask if you have spell components, but I remembered I don’t need any.” Caleb pushes back the sleeves of his shirt, showing the gem-like scales on his forearms.

Tilting his head, Fjord steps in closer. “May I?” he says, and holds his hand out.

Nerves thrum in Caleb’s stomach. “Sure,” he manages, and extends his right arm towards Fjord, who carefully holds it. Not until he feels the cool press of Fjord’s fingers does Caleb realize how fevered his skin is around the residuum.

“What is this?” asks Fjord quietly, one thumb brushing over the crystals.

“Activated residuum,” answers Caleb. “It’s, ah.” When he thinks about explaining it, the words snarl up together in his head. “I can draw on it for power.”

Fjord’s frown deepens, and he gently turns Caleb’s arm over. “This is… in you?” he says, sounding troubled. “Does it hurt?”

“Not usually.” Bren thinks about Astrid crying in his arms, her eyes turning to crystal, and about Eodwulf hanging himself with the residuum eating into his brain. The snarl draws even tighter, and Bren takes a deep breath and pushes it away.

The look Fjord gives him is unfathomable, and he slowly releases Caleb’s arm. _Don’t stop_ , Caleb wants to say, but can’t. He pulls his sleeve back down over his wrist instead. “All right,” says Fjord. “Well. Give me a holler if you need anythin’.” With one last searching look, he leaves.

Bren hasn’t disguised himself, he hasn’t needed to, but Caleb considers which of the false faces he’s used before is the least threatening, and then a much, much better idea comes to him. He turns himself into a cat.

He doesn’t even need a moth’s cocoon, just thinks about being a cat and then he’s small and four-legged and the scents around him are so much more vivid and complex, muddy river water and oak planks and the bed is _ripe_ with his own sweat and hormones. Jumping up onto the bed, Caleb turns around himself and curls up, resting his head on his paws. Closes his eyes. Now seems like a good time for a nap.

The sound of boots on wood disrupts his easy doze, and Caleb lifts his head as Fjord comes downstairs, Fjord who smells like leather and salt and orc musk. At first he looks confused, then smiles. “Nice one,” he says. His voice is deep and soothing. Eyes narrowed in trust, Caleb lowers his head back to his paws, ginger-striped tail wrapping around himself.

Fjord reaches out like he wants to pet Caleb – Caleb stiffens, watching his big hand come near – and then seems to think better of it, drawing back. He turns back up the stairs and Caleb settles back into his nap.

The next disturbance is about half an hour later, when a Crownsguard clumps down into the room. He does a cursory search, opening the various cabinets and cupboards, and then turns and notices Caleb on the bed. His face lights up, and he says, “Pss-pss-pss-pss-pss,” reaching a gauntleted hand towards Caleb.

Lead outlines the steel plates of his gauntlet. Caleb leaps off the bed and slinks under the gap under the lowest stair, curling up in a tight ball and watching the guard warily.

“Awww,” says the Crownsguard. He gets down on his knees with a clanging of armor, trying to peer under the stairs. “Hey, little guy,” he says. “It’s okay. I just want to be your friend.”

Drawing back, Caleb hisses. The Crownsguard pouts.

“Oy!” shouts someone else from above. “Jayce! You done?”

Jayce sighs regretfully, sitting back on his heels. “Yeah,” he calls back up. “All clear.” And he clunks back up the stairs.

Despite him being gone, Caleb stays hunched under the stairs, glancing around warily at every new sound. After some time, the boat jerks and starts moving forward again, but Caleb stays put. He doesn’t know who might come down again. Could be another scary person.

Heavy boots descend and Caleb shrinks as far back as he can. This time a woman enters, tall and muscular, dressed in a black cloak, her hair knotted and braided. She smells like human but cleaner and brighter, and dirty leather, and fur, and a little bit like dried flowers. “Caleb?” she says, looking around the room.

Eyes wide, Caleb stays still in his corner.

“Here, Caleb,” says the woman, low and a little awkward, looking around the room. “Here, kitty kitty.”

She kneels to peer in one of the drawers under the bed that the guard left open, and then turns and spots Caleb under the stairs. “Oh,” she says, smiling. “Hello.”

Something about her seems familiar. Caleb advances hesitantly, nose twitching.

“Yeah,” says the woman, holding out one hand with her fingers gently curled, worn leather covering her palm. “There you go.”

Slinking out from under the stairs, Caleb sniffs her hand thoroughly. She smells okay. She smells like a friend. Cautiously, he rubs his cheek on her fingers.

The woman chuckles and scratches Caleb under the chin, and ohhh, that feels _good_. He stretches his neck out, eyes closing. “Yeah, that is probably nice, huh,” says the woman softly. “I bet it is a long time since someone was nice to you.”

Caleb purrs.

He can feel the magic wearing thin, though, and backs into the center of the room in time to become human again. He sits cross-legged on the floor and a name comes into his mind for the woman across from him. “Yasha,” he says.

She smiles. “Hello.”

A burn scar stretches over the left side of her face and down her neck, and remerges from under her sleeve to cover the back of her hand. I don’t remember that scar, thinks Bren, and ice floods his veins. “Was that…” he says hoarsely, and gestures to her scar. “Did I do that?”

“This?” Yasha touches her face. “No, this was from the ship exploding.”

“Oh,” says Bren, strangely relieved. “Okay.”

“I am glad to see you are doing all right, though.”

 _All right_ is a relative term, Bren thinks. But he’ll take it. “Thank you.”

\--

Flames crackle and roar around Bren, burning buildings surrounding him. He’s in Blumenthal. He’s in Rerik. He’s in Rexxentrum. Wails and screams rise up from the fire. He looks down at his hands, and his skin splits like dried clay, an orange glow showing through the cracks. It hurts.

Bren opens his mouth to call for help, but his throat is so dry he cannot speak, pain shooting down his vocal cords. His parched lips split and sting, blood beading on them. Turning, he searches the inferno around him desperately for someone else. Anyone other than those who scream.

He catches his reflection in an unbroken window.

His face is not his own. Long thin nose. Clever thin lips. Wispy gray hair and beard, and skin like parchment through which that same orange glow cracks and burns.

Eyes like two terrible burning embers.

Bren’s reflection laughs, showing long horrible teeth. He laughs and laughs and laughs until the mocking sound drills its way into Bren’s head, and Bren screams with no voice and claws at his ears, but the laugh continues. _You’ll never get away from me, Bren_ , says the voice. _I will find you. I will always find you_.

No, Bren tries to cry. No, no, no. His throat cracks, heat pouring up into his mouth.

The laughter fills his head, overlapping with the screams until they are one and the same, burning, burning, burning, and Bren drops to his knees, tearing at his head. It hurts. His hands hurt. Everything hurts.

 _Caleb_ , says a new voice, deep and urgent, and Bren lets out another voiceless howl. _Caleb, listen to me, it’s just –_

“– a dream, wake up!”

Bren screams and his voice reverberates in the dark and he writhes, trapped under sweaty fabric. Rough, cool hands hold him down, and a hoarse voice he knows says, “Hey, hey, it’s all right. It’s over –”

A dark figure looms over Bren and a cry strangles in his throat as he scrambles back in the bed. “It’s me!” says the half-orc, holding his hands up. “It’s me, it’s Fjord.”

Chest heaving, Bren swallows down another cry and blinks saltwater out of his eyes. “Fjord?” he rasps. His throat feels raw as sandpaper, his pulse racing.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Fjord manages a slight smile, one hand holding Bren’s shoulder against the mattress, the other encircling his wrists on top of Bren’s chest. Bren’s stomach turns over at the restraints, hollow memories resurfacing. He can only stare at Fjord, frozen.

Fjord clears his throat, drawing back. “Yeah,” he says again, and pushes his hair out of his face. Moonlight gleams on the streak of white at his temple. “Um. Anyways.”

His hair is longer, Caleb thinks, with sudden stupid fondness. “Your hair is longer.”

A sudden, shamefaced grin crosses Fjord’s face, his tusks clearly visible. “Yeah, I haven’t had too much time for barberin’, I’m afraid.”

“I like it,” says Caleb, without really knowing why. It’s easier if he doesn’t think.

Fjord frowns but the rest of his face softens, and he leans back in over Caleb, gently brushing his sweaty hair off his forehead. “You’re okay now,” he says. “I mean it. I won’t let him hurt you.”

Bren goes still and cold again. “Who?”

“Ikithon. That’s who you had a nightmare about, right? That’s why you were screamin’.”

“I…” That’s what it was. A nightmare. Except, hadn’t it been real? “Ja.”

“He can’t find you. Can’t find me, either, or any of the crew.” Fjord pulls an amulet out from under his collar, identical to the one Caleb wears. “He can’t see us.”

It _wasn’t_ a nightmare. Bren was in that burning village. He set the houses aflame. He watched the children burn inside. Panicked breaths rise in his throat and he stares at Fjord, clutching his hand like an anchor that will keep him from tumbling back into the fire and ash. “Caleb?” says Fjord, concerned.

“I did it,” whispers Bren, tears stinging his eyes. “All those people. I killed them.”

Dropping his head, Fjord sighs heavily. “It wasn’t you, Caleb,” he says heavily. Resigned, almost. Like he knew this would come. “You weren’t in your right mind.”

Bren doesn’t know what his right mind is anymore. “But I did it.”

“Yeah, because Ikithon made you.” Sudden fear flashes in Fjord’s eyes. “He did make you, didn’t he?”

Swallowing thickly, Bren has to take a moment to puzzle together what happened, remembering the burn of plum brandy and Ikithon’s damp mouth on his ear and how he said Bren would never be safe. “I don’t – I don’t know,” manages Bren. “When I thought I had to, to be free – I don’t know, was that my thought, was that his –” His breath starts to hitch again and Bren stares at his hands, at the orange glow of residuum on his forearms. “I – I can’t – I can’t tell –”

“Hey, hey hey hey,” says Fjord, soothing again, and his thumb brushes Bren’s stubbly cheek. “Shh, it’s all right. We’ll figure it out. It’s all right.”

Caleb realizes his panicked breaths have turned into sobs, and quiets himself with a hiccup. His cheeks feel wet. Only now does it occur to him that either he woke Fjord with his screaming, or Fjord was waiting in his room for just such an eventuality. “I am a mess.”

The corners of Fjord’s mouth turn up. “Yeah, but you’re my mess.”

That startles a little laugh out of Caleb, some part of him surprised he still remembers how. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” The intensity in his eyes sends a shiver down Caleb’s spine. “Never apologize.”

Caleb’s heart quivers in his chest. Is it fear, or something more tender? “All right,” he whispers. “Good night, Fjord.”

Fjord withdraws his hands, though Caleb can still feel his touch like a cool weight on his skin. As he stands, the shadows fall back over his face, leaving the faintest yellow glow in his eyes. “G’night, Caleb,” he says, husky. “Sleep well.” 

\--

They are far enough out of the Empire now that Bren can risk going above decks, stepping out into the silver-pink predawn. The canal boat glides through the river, towed by a monster of a black, rough-furred horse. Two more horses plod beside it, dapple gray and rusty roan, and Caduceus paces in front of them, his pink hair vivid. When he sees Bren, he smiles and waves.

Hesitantly, Caleb waves back. A fine mist hangs over the treetops, and the dark river ripples gently. A morning songbird chirps from the shore. Caleb inhales a lungful of cool air, tasting the damp and the freshness. _This is not so bad,_ he thinks, and for a strange, brief moment he feels light and free.

Sinking cross-legged onto the deck, he watches the burning disc of the sun slowly slip above the horizon. Spring is coming to the land, green leaves just beginning to emerge on the trees. The breeze whispers of Caleb of things unknown, gentle and mysterious, and the thought that first crept into his mind after he polymorphed into a cat blooms into fruition.

Normally, he would need incense, a brazier, and an hour. But with renewed energy pulsing in his residuum, all Caleb needs to do is close his eyes and reach out along the ley lines. An energy sweeter and softer than fire whispers through him, sparks tracing the arcane paths in his mind. The glowing orange trail winds off into the Feywild, leading back to him. Showing the way.

Eyes still closed, Caleb thinks of nothing beyond the sound of water lapping against the wood, the chill biting his fingers and toes. Thinks of nothing at all.

A small, furry head pushes against his hand, and a cat meows.

Caleb’s eyes fly open, his heart swelling as Frumpkin climbs into his lap, arching his back to rub against Caleb. “Hey,” he breathes, tears welling in his eyes, and places shaking hands on Frumpkin’s spotted coat. A purr rumbling inside him, Frumpkin settles into his lap. “Ja, ja,” he murmurs, a catch in his voice. “Gute Katze, du bist eine gute Katze, es tut mir so leid, dass ich dich verlassen habe…”

Eyes closed, Frumpkin compacts himself into a loaf. Hesitantly, Caleb strokes a hand over his back, not quite believing he has Frumpkin back. He is so small, and yet so real. Caleb rubs the plush fur under Frumpkin’s ear, and his cat tilts his head into his touch with what Caleb swears is a little smile. “Gute Katze,” he murmurs again, and Frumpkin purrs. “Sehr gut.”

\--

As the days pass, forests give way to villages, mill wheels turning through the water and painted boats docked along the shore. Bren spends more and more time below decks, avoiding strange eyes as much as possible, and more and more time as a cat, nestled together with Frumpkin. Too much time, maybe, according to the conversation between Fjord and Caduceus he overhears. “It can’t be normal, right?” says Fjord, worry evident in his voice. “Him bein’ a cat all the time?”

“He’s healing, I don’t think anything is normal,” says Caduceus reassuringly. “Give him time.”

Later that day, when Caduceus comes by to touch his hand to Caleb’s forehead and cast the cool restorative spell again, Caleb asks, “Is it wrong for me to be a cat?”

Caduceus tilts his head, smiling slightly. “You heard Fjord and I talking, huh?”

Bren looks down at the floor guiltily. “Ja.”

“Well, we weren’t exactly being quiet,” says Caduceus easily. “Does being a cat help you?”

His thoughts are quieter when he’s a cat. The ghosts in his head don’t scream as loud. “Ja,” he mutters.

“Then it isn’t wrong.” Caduceus smiles, patting Bren on the shoulder. “Now, how is your head feeling?”

More days go by, Caleb not keeping track. The wind changes, carrying salt and seawater with it, and the cries of seagulls start piercing the air. The mornings now are cold and foggy, moisture from the sea rolling in.

They reach Port Demali, a sprawling city of domed buildings, arched gates, and minarets. Caleb watches from through the little window in his bedroom as they navigate through the city’s main canal, passing through various locks before eventually reaching the harbor. The city is full of shouting merchants and braying animals and rumbling wheels, and Bren has to slowly sit back down on the bed, an ache slowly pounding in his temple. Purring, Frumpkin curls up against Caleb’s thigh, comfortingly warm. The residuum in his neck itches and stings, and Bren scratches at it, wishing vaguely for cool hands on his skin.

His nail catches on the edge of a crystal. Bren pauses, tugging unthinkingly until it hurts. The temptation to dig in, to scratch and scrape until he can pull the crystals out, strikes him and he pauses, feeling his nails press in against his skin…

Someone knocks at the door and Bren starts, jerking his hand down guiltily. “Hey,” says Fjord. “We’re headin’ out.”

Slowly, Bren gets to his feet. When he opens the door, Fjord isn’t Fjord, not entirely. The half-orc has been scrubbed from his features, skin golden-brown, jawline refined and tusks gone, pupils round inside brown irises. Subtle, for spellwork, and this surprises Caleb vaguely. Should he not expect subtlety from Fjord? The thought spirals, knotting up inside his head, and Bren staggers against the doorframe with his eyes screwed shut.

“Caleb?” says Fjord, steadying him with a hand at his elbow.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath and open his eyes, Caleb (Bren?) says, “I am fine. Let’s go.” Frumpkin brushes up against his ankles

“You oughta disguise yourself.”

His is a face that should not be seen, Caleb supposes, and turns into a cat.

“All right,” chuckles Fjord, and his face screws up and he sneezes. “Oh. Uh.” Dismay crosses his expression. “You might want to stick with Yasha.”

Caleb rides on Yasha’s shoulders as they exit out onto the dock, his tail flicking as a flock of pigeons flies by. Their canal boat is docked among a row of others, their sides painted in blues and reds and greens, yellow letters on the prows spelling out their names. Caduceus joins them, and he looks different too. Tall and gangly, but human, with freckled skin and red hair. He smells the same, though it’s hard to tell through the overpowering horsey scent of the black steed clip-clopping beside him. “You’re keeping him?” says Yasha, surprised.

“Yeah. He’s a good horse. Thought I might take him back to Darktow and keep him there while we’re out sailin’,” says Fjord.

Darktow is a city, Caleb thinks, and then stops caring because a seagull has landed on one of the posts along the pier. Its beady yellow eye stares back at him, unblinking. Caleb pulls his lips back and chatters hungrily at the bird.

They turn a corner and the harbor opens up, dozens of many-masted ships gently rocking on the ocean swells. Caleb’s been on a ship like that before. The thought makes him both prickly with fear and warm with a sense of _home_ , and he doesn’t know which is right, and he doesn’t like it. “Ow,” whispers Yasha, and gently disentangles Caleb’s claws from her tunic. “That hurts.”

Beams of sunlight break through the heavy gray clouds above them, and the rolling sea is a deep green. They head along a dock to one of the larger ships; the horse balks and snorts as the deck shifts under their feet, and Caduceus murmurs to it, reassuring.

The ship looms over them, _Leviathan_ written on its bow in a scrolling gold font. “Ahoy!” shouts a purple tiefling in a billowing shirt, and Caduceus waves back cheerily, human vestige slipping way. Memory stirs at the back of Caleb’s brain, and he stares at the tiefling.

Yasha and Fjord walk up the gangplank, Caduceus persuading the horse to place its heavy hooves on the wooden ramp. No sooner does Caduceus reach the deck then the purple tiefling bounds forward and leaps into Caduceus’ arms, legs and tail wrapping around his waist. Caduceus laughs, a deep, hearty sound. “Hello,” he says.

This is new. Caleb doesn’t know what to make of this. He hunches uncertainly on Yasha’s shoulders. “Do you remember Molly?” she murmurs. “Want to say hello?”

“Fjord?” says a woman, and Caleb snaps his head around as a blue tiefling approaches, frowning. “Did you… where’s Caleb?”

His illusion dissipating, Fjord snorts. “With Yasha,” he says, trying to hide satisfaction behind a gruff tone.

Both tieflings turn to stare at Caleb, and the blue one gasps, her hands clasping together. “He’s a _cat_?”

“Uhhh…” says a human woman, dressed in faded blue robes. “Fjord?” She gives him a deeply skeptical look.

Fjord turns to Caleb. “Hey,” he says gently, holding a hand out. “Why don’t you show yourself. It’s okay.”

Kneeling, Yasha sets Caleb down on the floor, and he meows in protest. Part of him wants to be a cat, forever, and never show his face again. But he knows that can’t happen. Steeling himself, Caleb goes back to being human.

As he does, something clicks in his head. “Mollymauk?” he croaks.

Grinning, Molly drops to his feet and strides over. “There you are,” and before Caleb can react, pulls him into a hug. Caleb stiffens, putting an arm around him hesitantly. The tiefling smells like patchouli, his voice familiar, and he was on Fjord’s crew, wasn’t he. This is Fjord’s crew.

“He’s a little confused,” says Caduceus mildly, approaching. “So I’d take it slow –”

Pulling back, Caleb says, “No – no, I mean, I am confused, but not about…” He puts his hands on Molly’s shoulders and looks him in the scarlet eyes. “I remember you, Molly Tealeaf.”

When Molly smiles, his teeth gleam and his eyes crinkle. “Excellent.”

He looks over at the human woman, who he thinks he remembers from Avantika’s trial on Darktow, an eon ago. “You,” he says slowly. “You are Cobalt Soul?”

The woman grimaces. “Beauregard,” she says, folding her arms and appraising him. “First mate to Captain Tusktooth here.”

“Tusktooth – oh,” says Caleb, looking over at Fjord. “I thought you were – I thought your name was Stone.”

“It, uh. It is, yeah.” Fjord rubs the back of his neck. “I just wanted somethin’ a little more impressive than ‘Captain Stone,’ y’know?”

Privately, Caleb thinks Captain Stone has a certain ring to it. But Captain Tusktooth works too. He turns to the blue tiefling, who is still wholly unfamiliar, and says, “I am sorry, but I do not remember –”

“Oh, that’s okay,” she interrupts, and holds her hand out with a fanged smile. “Hi, I’m Jester.”

Hesitantly, Caleb takes her hand and she shakes it, silver ornaments gleaming on her horns and neck. “Hi, I’m uh, Caleb.”

“Nice to meet you, Caleb.” Her cheeks dimple.

There’s someone missing, though, something nagging at the back of Caleb’s mind. Big ears, yellow eyes, clever fingers. “Where’s Nott?” he asks hoarsely.

Molly and Jester exchange knowing looks. “Come with me,” says Molly.

They lead Caleb to the stairs heading into the hold; halfway down, Bren stops. The hold is dark and enclosed and he doesn’t trust either of these people and they’re surrounded by _water_ –

“Hey,” says Fjord softly behind him, and Bren jumps. Fjord holds both his hands up, non-threatening. “You don’t have to go down if you don’t want to.”

Bren taps his fingers on his thighs, considering. He’s killed people. He’s burned down entire buildings. Being afraid to go down in the dark is ridiculous. “I’m fine,” he says stubbornly, and descends.

It’s not completely unlit in the storage hold, soft light shining through the large grates in the deck. “This way,” says Molly, and leads him towards a cluster of barrels in the back.

“You’re glowing,” whispers Jester, and Bren glances down at the residuum on his arms. Sure enough, it emits a soft orange glow, and he imagines the crystals on his neck are doing the same.

Maybe I should get bandages again, he thinks. Cover up both the crystals and the scars. But the thought is upsetting, somehow. Why should he be ashamed of his own power, the one good thing he walked out of this nightmare with?

“Nott?” Jester crouches by the barrels, peering into a gap between two of them. “There’s someone here to see you.”

Something shuffles behind the barrels. “Is it Caleb?” she rasps, suspicious.

“Yeah,” says Jester, and smiles. “Come on out.”

Slowly, Nott slinks out, eyes reflecting the glow of Bren’s crystals. “Why are you hiding down here?” he asks hoarsely.

“I don’t like water,” mutters Nott, and yes, Caleb remembers that. “It is you, right? You-you?”

Jester steps back, and Caleb sinks down on his haunches as Nott inches closer. “I don’t know what that means,” Caleb confesses. “I think I’m me.”

“You owe me,” says Nott, and her voice cracks. “You’re supposed to teach me magic.”

Caleb can’t help it; he laughs, a sad little sound. “I don’t think you want to learn from me anymore.”

Eyes flashing, Nott says, “Why? Because you were brainwashed? I don’t think so. You made a deal, Caleb. Don’t go back on it.”

Her brash refusal of his trauma is oddly comforting, and Caleb finds himself grinning. The expression still feels rusty. “You are right,” he says. “How could I be so foolish as to forget?”

“Hrm.” The corners of Nott’s wide mouth turn up, and she reaches a clawed finger out to touch the crystals wrapping around Caleb’s throat. “Good.”


	20. Act IV, Scene 2

The crew Beau cobbled together isn’t half bad, some new blood and a couple of old sea dogs rounding out Fjord’s people. One of them in particular, a one-eyed tortle named Orly hired on as navigator, looks like he’ll be particularly worth his salt. And the first few days out of Port Demali are easy sailing, the _Leviathan_ leaping over the deep blue waves like a dancer.

Seated on a crate on the deck, Fjord fills his lungs with the salty air, tasting the tang of the ocean. Just to have something to do with his hands, he whittles a piece of wood, scraping it into shape with his short knife. As a dolphin begins to emerge from the knot of pine, one of the hatches opens, and Caleb walks up onto the deck, Frumpkin trotting at his heels.

Fjord holds his breath, whittling forgotten. They got some proper clothes for Caleb in Port Damali, and they suit him: low boots of soft brown leather, loose green pants, flowing white shirt, and a long, sleeveless coat of heavy brown weave, shot with gold threads at the shoulders and neck. The wind tousles Caleb’s hair, bringing color to his pale cheeks and a bit of sparkle to his blue eyes, and though the beard he’s grown out since his rescue is ten kinds of scraggly, Fjord finds he doesn’t mind it. It hides the hollows in Caleb’s cheeks.

Caleb crosses the deck, and Fjord dares to hope he’s walking towards him. But instead, Caleb goes right to where Molly and Jester sit cross-legged on the deck together, playing with Molly’s tarot cards. “You,” he demands, pointing at Molly. “How come your eyes are red when hers are all normal?” and he gestures at Jester.

Molly’s smile widens, baring sharp fangs. “Because there’s that much more devil in me.”

Fjord can’t help a snort of amusement, and Caleb turns towards him. As he sees Fjord, he frowns, uncertainty flickering over his face. Fjord gives him a little wave and a reassuring smile. Maybe someday, Caleb will look at him again without fear, and Fjord’s heart aches for the possibility.

Caleb’s frown deepens, and he crosses back over to Fjord, that cat following him like a shadow. “Good to see you up and about,” says Fjord.

Ignoring this completely, Caleb points at Fjord. “Your eyes have changed,” he accuses, voice wavering uncertainly. “Haven’t they?”

Sighing, Fjord rubs his thumb over the half-formed dolphin. “Yeah, they used to be brown,” he says. “Remember?”

Caleb gives him a look, which he absolutely deserves. “All right, all right,” Fjord says, and shifts over on the crate to make room. “Here, sit. It’s a long story.”

Hesitantly, Caleb lowers himself onto the crate next to Fjord, a careful two inches separating their thighs. Frumpkin curls up at his feet. “Do you, uh, remember Avantika? And the orbs?” asks Fjord.

Caleb nods slowly. “She also had, uh…” and he points at his own eyes.

“Yeah,” says Fjord, masking the pang of disappointment in his chest that Caleb remembers Avantika better than himself. It’s because Ikithon didn’t bother to corrupt those memories, he tells himself. “So, uh. When the ship exploded, I just remember sinkin’. Fallin’ into dark water. Drownin’. And the last thing I saw was the orb, and I reached out for it, and… And the next thing I remember is hackin’ my lungs up on a beach near Nicodranus. Jester found me, nursed me back to health. And my eyes were yellow, and I had this.” He summons the falchion and hands it to Caleb, the twin orbs glassy on the pommel and guard.

Caleb takes the sword gingerly, turning it over. “What have you done?” he murmurs, hair falling in his eyes.

“Made a pact with a primal demigod, receiving powers I never could have dreamed of in exchange for pledging myself in its service,” says Fjord. “I don’t know what Uk’atoa wants, or when he’ll come to collect. But I don’t care. I never could have saved you otherwise.”

Caleb’s eyes flash up to his, blue flecked with gold. He slides his thumb along the polished steel edge, too gentle to break skin, but Fjord has to resist the urge to yank the falchion out of his hands all the same. “It suits you,” he says hoarsely, and hands the sword back to Fjord.

“Thanks,” says Fjord, pride warming his heart. He wants so badly to reach out and touch Caleb, to smooth back his tangled hair and brush his thumb over his lower lip. But instead he laces his hands together between his knees, Frumpkin watching him with round green eyes. “I gotta say, it feels right. I probably ain’t doin’ the right thing, but… I dunno, that don’t matter so much.”

Bracing his forearms on his knees, Caleb stares out into nothingness. “We do what we must to survive,” he says under his breath.

“Aye,” says Fjord quietly, watching him. “If I could be so bold as to ask, what happened to you? How did you survive?”

Caleb sighs deeply, flattening his hands up his thighs. “Once, long ago, you asked me why I was scared of flames, and I said I would tell you some day, but not today.” He glances up at Fjord again, the circles under his eyes deep even after weeks of recovery. “I must ask the same indulgence of you again.”

“And like I told you once, take all the time you need,” says Fjord gently. His heart longs for that little cove on Darktow again, for the lap of waves against their bare skin and Caleb’s lips against his. “I’ll be right here.”

Clearing his throat, Caleb glances up at Fjord before dropping his gaze to his feet. “Thank you,” he mutters.

You don’t have to thank me, Fjord thinks, chest aching, and squeezes his hands together between his legs before he can reach out to touch Caleb. “Any time.”

\--

Sweat sticking his clothes to his skin, shreds of nightmare still clinging to his thoughts, Bren stumbles up onto the deck of the _Tide’s Breath_ with Frumpkin in his arms. For an irrational moment, he expects flames to rise up around him, but instead blue moonlight shines down on a calm sea. And he and Frumpkin aren’t alone, either. A dark figure stands at the prow, gazing out over the ocean.

Bren slowly draws closer, bare feet making no noise on the solid planks of the deck. Purring in his arms, Frumpkin fixes his gaze on the figure. As they get closer, Bren begins to pick out details: broad shoulders, dark hair fading to white, burn scars down one arm. Not wanting to startle her and provoke an attack, Bren pauses. His breath sticks in his mouth.

Moonlight glints off of Yasha’s profile as she looks over her shoulder at Bren. “Hello, Caleb,” she says. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Clearing his throat, Bren steps forward. “Ja,” he says hoarsely. “Nightmares.”

Yasha sighs, shifting her weight from one leg to the other as she looks back over the sea. “It’s very peaceful out here.”

The moonlight on the waves and the lapping of waves against the hull draws Bren forward until he stands next to Yasha at the rail. Frumpkin climbs onto his shoulders, curling up warm around his neck. “I keep – I keep seeing them,” he rasps. “All the people I burned.” He holds his shaking hands out, the residuum pulsing faintly.

Eyebrows drawn together, Yasha reaches over with her scarred hand but doesn’t quite touch Bren, her fingers hovering above the residuum. “What does that do?”

“It’s ah, uhm.” Ikithon had explanations. Bren doesn’t remember them. “It’s power. Instead of spell components. You know, like the sulfur and the catmint and the… all of that. I just use this instead.”

“And it’s… in you?”

“Mm.” Sometimes at nigh Bren swears he can feel it creeping between his bones.

Yasha sighs heavily, the corners of her mouth drawn tight. “Is that how he controlled you?” she says quietly.

Words form in Bren’s mouth without really knowing why. “He didn’t – he didn’t control me,” he says, robotic. Ikithon withholding a plate of food from him. Ikithon sliding the residuum under his skin. Ikithon’s drunken breath on his neck. “I knew what I was doing.”

For a long, long moment, Yasha looks at him sadly. “Before I met you,” she says. “Before I found Molly, even. After I left my tribe, there was a time where…” She stops and swallows, old pain in her eyes. “Another man found me, a devil. And he had me doing such terrible things. I couldn’t stop myself. I was watching myself do these things and couldn’t control my body.”

 _I could,_ thinks Bren miserably. Frumpkin kneads his paws gently into his shoulder, claws catching on his shirt.

“But I still think, maybe I just hadn’t tried hard enough. Maybe if I’d fought just a _little_ bit harder, I could have shaken him off,” Yasha continues. “If I hadn’t been such a fucking failure.”

Bren’s heart twists. “How did you break free?” he asks hoarsely.

“I don’t know,” sighs Yasha, hands braced on the railing. “The first thing I remember is waking up in front of an altar to the Storm Lord. It was the middle of nowhere, but His stele was there. And I was free.”

She gazes out over the waves with a quiet reverence, and for a moment, Bren wishes he sees what she does. “So He saved you.”

“I like to think so.”

Bren clenches his fists, the residuum burning. “I don’t think the gods have much use for me,” he says bitterly.

“Maybe that’s a good thing.” Yasha regards him thoughtfully. “Would you want to be used?”

The rhetorical question tightens his chest, air sucking out of his lungs. “No,” gasps Bren/Caleb, tears trembling in his eyes. “No, I…” and his voice cracks.

It starts somewhere behind his ribs, his breath hitching unhappily. Then it climbs up his chest and into his throat, where it burns, so that he has to fight for air, little broken noises punching out of him. Not until it reaches his eyes and the tears start to roll down his cheeks does Caleb realize he’s crying.

“Oh,” says Yasha awkwardly. “Um.”

She doesn’t offer any words of comfort as Caleb chokes on his sobs, never really letting himself lose control, but her solid presence at his side is reassuring. Eventually Caleb quiets, sniffling and rubbing at his chest where it hurts a little. Leaning in, Frumpkin sniffs his cheek and then starts licking up the saltwater, tongue raspy on Caleb’s beard.

“Do you need help sleeping?” offers Yasha. “I think Caduceus has something.”

He does, Bren knows by experience. “No, I will be all right,” he says hoarsely. “Thank you. And, ah, for what it’s worth,” he adds, before he can second-guess himself. “I don’t think you are a failure.”

Genuine surprise blooms on Yasha’s face, for a moment making her look younger and startlingly vulnerable. “Okay,” she says. “That is, um. Very kind of you.”

 _Kind_. There were children in Rerik when Bren burned it to the ground. He could hear them screaming. “I am not kind,” he mutters, and leaves.

\--

Lying on his back in his bunk, Caleb stares at the wood grain of the ceiling as the sea rocks him, Frumpkin curled up asleep on his lap. Technically it is Fjord’s bunk, in the captain’s quarters. Fjord insisted he take it, as Beau occupies the quartermaster’s cabin, and Bren didn’t have the energy to protest it. Especially since Fjord sleeps on the other side of the room, on a mattress on the floor.

They’d had the same conversation before, hadn’t they. In the captain’s quarters of the _Tide’s Breath._ Once again, someone else was occupying the quartermaster’s cabin, except then Caleb had said he would figure out where to sleep on his own. Fjord hadn’t offered his bed then. Caleb ponders the difference, watching the squares of light cast by the mullioned windows slide back and forth across the ceiling. Maybe it’s because Fjord hadn’t slept with him yet.

He’s getting better at picking apart the true memories from the false, slow progress after weeks of restoration spells from Caduceus but progress all the same. The wrong ones taste bitter, and not that plenty of his true memories are dark and painful, but there’s a difference all the same. He rubs at his arm, easing the ache where the residuum encroaches on his skin.

The boundary between skin and crystal separates slightly, bright pain pricking him. Bren pauses, his fingernail catching on the edge of the crystal. The urge to tear at the residuum, to pry that shit right off his skin, overtakes him and he tugs at it. Immediately his skin tears and Bren gasps in pain, a trickle of blood rolling down his arm. “Scheiβe,” he mutters, pressing his sleeve over the broken skin. Red blooms in the white linen and Bren’s stomach twists guiltily; this shirt was a gift from Fjord. _He’ll be angry I ruined it_ , he thinks, before immediately clamping down on that thought. It tastes like ash. It’s wrong. Caleb tore a hole in the knee of his new pants two days ago and Fjord didn’t even blink, just had Jester mend it. It’s okay.

Sudden shouting and commotion sounds from the deck. Frowning, Caleb sits up, gently dislodging Frumpkin who meows in protest and arches his back in a stretch. “Was ist los, Katze?” he mutters, lifting Frumpkin onto his shoulders as he gets up and crosses the room. “Huh?”

“Miau,” says Frumpkin. With his keen hearing, he can tell the shouting is panicked.

Caleb hurries out onto the deck, bright sunlight falling on him, and he squints at the scene in front of him: Caduceus kneeling over Molly, who lies on the deck crumpled at an unnatural angle, and one of the sailors, a blond half-elf, cowering as Fjord bellows at him. “I told you to fix the damn rigging!” Fjord roars, pointing up at where several ropes dangle from the highest sail. “You call that fuckin’ fixing? Next time someone falls, it’s gonna be you!”

The half-elf stammers an apology, close to tears. Holding Frumpkin close, Caleb swallows hard and takes a step forward. Molly certainly lies very still, and his neck is at an angle no one’s neck should be. Caleb goes cold all over.

“Again?” snaps Beau, climbing down the main mast and landing on the other side of the half-elf, who jumps and whimpers. “God dammit, Marius!”

Meanwhile Caduceus is very calmly and gently rearranging Molly so he lies with his limbs and spine straight, and none of this makes sense to Caleb at all. “Is he… dead?” he asks hoarsely, despite the conclusive evidence in front of him.

Fjord turns, surprise rounding his eyes. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah. Um. It’s a long story. Beau, will you handle Marius before I keel-haul him myself?” He glares at Marius, who cowers.

“Aye aye, Captain,” says Beau with grim pleasure, and cracks her knuckles. Marius whimpers again.

Hurrying over to Caleb, Fjord says quietly, “Sorry, I didn’t think that you wouldn’t know. Molly is… well, turns out he can’t die.”

Caleb frowns at the very dead body of Molly on the deck. “I think he can.”

“Okay, yeah, technically he can – and keeps doing – he just always comes back to life.” Fjord folds his arms over his chest, mouth flat in disapproval. “Result of some ritual gone wrong, apparently. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad that he does, I just don’t know what other uncanny shit is going on behind the curtain, y’know?”

“Oh,” says Caleb faintly. Frumpkin settles more comfortably on his shoulders, looking on with Caleb as Caduceus drapes Molly’s patterned coat over his body. “How long does it take?”

Fjord shrugs, glancing down at Frumpkin, and his nose twitches. “Seems to depend on how bad the thing that killed him was. Anywhere from a few hours to up to a day.”

Sure enough, that night as they sit around the table in the galley, spooning up the mushrooms and salted broth Caduceus prepared, Molly walks in, wincing and rubbing the back of his neck, which still has a slight but distinct crick. “Caddy?” he says hoarsely. “Mind taking care of this again?”

“Absolutely.” Caduceus gets up from his seat and crosses over, one large hand passing over Molly’s neck. As he does, a pale green glow flares, and then subsides.

Molly sighs in relief and rolls his head back. “Thanks, darling,” he says, and kisses Caduceus on the cheek before dropping onto one of the benches and pulling a hunk of sourdough loaf towards him. “Thank the gods, I’m starving,” and he tears into the bread.

Sitting across from him, Caleb taps his metal spoon against his bowl, Frumpkin wound around his legs. “So you die and come back, huh?” he says.

Swallowing, Molly manages a wry grin. Judging by the dark circles under his eyes, the experience is not pleasant. “Seems to be how it is.”

Caleb very much wants to ask if there is anything that will kill him forever, out of morbid curiosity, but given the intensity with which Caduceus watches Molly eat, he thinks that would be a bad idea at the moment. “You are lucky,” he says instead.

Molly’s grin turns sharp as a knife. “That’s one word for it.”

\--

“Mama!” shrieks Jester in delight, launching herself at the Ruby of the Sea. Laughing, Marion hugs her close, sunlight beaming through the open windows of her boudoir. Fjord can’t help a smile at this affectionate scene as he leans in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest. Beside him, Beau has a curiously wistful expression on her face, the ginger tabby cat in her arms watching with wide blue eyes.

“Oh, my darling…” Breaking the embrace, Marion steps back with her hands on Jester’s cheeks. “Let me look at you. You are all right?”

Jester nods, and then her face falls. “Mama, I…”

Frowning, Marion immediately says, “What is it?”

“Bluud didn’t make it,” Jester whispers.

“ _Oh._ ” Marion’s face falls in dismay, and she puts a hand to her heart in a gesture that would look disingenuously affected on anyone else. “Oh, no. How?”

Stepping forward, Fjord offers, “Savin’ our lives. We got into a bit of a scrap in Yrossa and he made sure we got out safely. He died a real hero, ma’am.”

Taking a deep breath, Marion manages a smile despite the tears glimmering in her eyes. “Well, I am just glad you all are safe,” and she cups Jester’s cheeks in her hands again. Jester gives her a watery smile. “And did you… were you successful? Did you find your Caleb?”

Fjord nods proudly over at the cat in Beau’s arms. “Wanna say hi, Caleb?”

The ginger tabby looks at him. Then, in one fluid motion, he jumps out of Beau’s arms and stands tall, form stretching into that of Caleb Widogast. Marion starts back, mouth forming a little “o” of surprise, as Caleb blinks, adjusting to his surroundings. “Hello,” he says hoarsely.

Recovering, Marion extends a gracious hand. “It is so good to finally meet you,” she says. “I have heard a lot about you from Fjord.”

Caleb very gingerly touches his hand to hers. “Thank you.”

Introductions completed, Marion sorts out their accommodations. “I can just sleep in the barracks,” offers Fjord, but she cuts him off.

“No no no, you are a guest of the Chateau now, Captain Tusktooth,” and Marion smiles at him, taking his arm. “And is Caleb sharing your room…?”

Fjord glances over at Caleb. They’ve been sharing the captain’s quarters on the _Leviathan_ so that Caleb could have the bed, Fjord sleeping on pillows on the floor in case he needs to wake Caleb from night terrors. He’s asked Caleb, and though it was hard for him to get a straight answer out, Fjord got the impression Caleb was reassured having him close by. But if Caleb wants his own room now, he understands. “Caleb?”

“I, uh…” Caleb clears his throat, glancing from Fjord to Marion to the floor. “The same room is fine.” Fjord’s heart does a happy little stutter.

Soft understanding crosses Marion’s face, and the tension leaves Caleb’s shoulders a little. “Very good,” she says. “Come, let me show you your rooms.”

She leads them down the stairs into the main dining room, towards the east wing. Fjord’s footsteps echo on the polished wood floor; the dining room is silent, empty except for the five of them. Dust motes dance in the sunbeams streaming through the tall arched windows, the light gleaming faintly on the white cloths draped over the tables and chairs and shining on the sleek black wood of the piano in the corner. Caleb pauses, glancing at the instrument with clear interest.

“Do you play?” asks Marion, her trailing silk robe swishing as she stops and turns.

“I used to,” mutters Caleb, with another wistful look at the piano. “A long time ago.”

Fjord glances at him in surprise, having never considered music as a skill of his. “You should play for us!” says Jester.

Immediately flushing, Caleb ducks his head. “No, I couldn’t –”

“There’s no one here,” says Marion, gesturing around the empty room. “I certainly wouldn’t mind. Please, play.”

Caleb looks over at the piano with more open longing, his brow furrowed, his fingers twitching like running over imaginary keys. _Go on,_ Fjord wants to say, his heart breaking a little at Caleb wanting something so badly but not letting himself have it.

“Are you sure?” Caleb says.

Clear and rippling as a spring, Marion laughs, “Yes, of course.”

Caleb’s fingers twitch again, and he gnaws on his lip. Then with a sudden huff and shake of his shoulders, he strides towards the piano. “We can turn our backs if it’ll make you feel more comfortable,” Fjord offers, half-joking.

But Caleb just snorts and rolls his eyes at Fjord. Reaching the piano, he circles around the bench, trailing his fingers over the glossy leather and polished wood. Brilliant sunlight from the big window floods over Caleb, dancing on his hair and shining on the piano lid. Sitting down, Caleb lifts the lid from the keys with quiet reverence, fingers skimming over the keys but not pressing down. Taking a deep breath, he rakes a hand through his hair, and plays a few experimental notes.

Apparently satisfied, Caleb starts playing a [lilting, dance-like melody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c3lid40q2ew). Fjord doesn’t know much music beyond the sea shanties and dirty songs he learned on various ships, but this is something else, fluid and graceful, the kind of music that belongs with silk dresses and glittering evenings. Caleb’s fingers are hypnotic in the way they dance over the keys, and Fjord sits back against the nearest table, watching his hands and the steady concentration on his face as the music washes over him.

When Caleb stops with a self-conscious smile, the air rings with silence until Jester claps eagerly. Unfreezing, Fjord clears his throat and says, “Wow, that’s uh, real nice –”

Caleb plunges his hands back onto the keys and launches into [another tune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xz7usUEPWsc). If the first was a burbling stream, this is a storm at sea; Caleb’s fingers fly over the keys faster than Fjord thought possible, notes tumbling out of them, at times slamming into the ivory so hard it seems Caleb’s trying to break it. His copper-bright hair tumbles into his face, and Fjord can’t tell if the sparks in his eyes are from the sunlight or the intensity of his playing.

The music surrounds Fjord, drawing him in. In the bright light Caleb’s hair shines like fire, his fingers practically shimmering, and Fjord half-holds his breath, afraid to break this new kind of spell. Caleb glows from within, the tired lines on his face fading, the pain falling away as he burns with creative fervor. Fjord suddenly wants to lose himself in that intensity and be swept up in those flames –

With a cascade of notes and final ringing chords, Caleb finishes. Flushed and breathing slightly hard, he pushes his hair out of his face and smooths down his ragged beard, self-conscious again as he looks around at his little audience. “ _Damn_ ,” says Beau. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

“I had a very expensive education,” says Caleb, face creasing with a bitter laugh. Fjord winces sympathetically, stuffing his hands under his arms so he doesn’t go over and smooth the pained lines out of Caleb’s face with his thumbs. He loves Caleb so fiercely he can barely stand it.

Beaming, Jester sits next to Caleb on the piano bench, her skirts poofing around her. “You should play for my mom sometime,” she says. “For when she sings!”

Caleb’s ears turn scarlet, and his eyes widen in panic. “Ah, no, I could never,” he says. “Thank you, Frau Lavorre, for allowing me to play.”

“Oh, of course,” says Marion gently. “It was my pleasure.”

\--

Caleb should have expected, all things considered, that he and Fjord would enter their shared room to find one double bed rather than two singles. A very large and luxurious bed, fluffy mattress piled high with pillows and silk sheets and a fine velvet blanket, but only one. “Ah,” says Fjord, flushing brown, and rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t think – it’s all right, Caleb, I’ll take the floor. Looks like there’s more than enough pillows on that thing anyway.”

Hesitantly, Caleb touches the bed, his finger sinking into the plush mattress. This is by far a finer bed than he’s ever slept in, whether in Blumenthal or the Soltryce Academy or in various ships and roadside hostels. He’s sure Fjord could say the same. And lately he’s been waking up to Fjord sleeping on the floor with an odd emptiness around him. “You do not need to,” he says haltingly. “On my account, that is.”

He dares to look up at Fjord, who watches him with the care and worry of someone trying not to startle a wild animal. “You sure?” he says. “I mean it, I don’t mind…”

“Fjord.” Caleb can’t help the little half-smile that comes to his lips when he says his name. “I know. You have been very careful around me, these past weeks. And I, ah…” It’s harder now, to put things into words, but Caleb will do it anyway. “I can’t help but think, the terrible man Ikithon told me you were, would never have been so patient or so considerate.” Caleb clears his throat, continuing in a hurry before he slips back into being Bren. “So yes. You may sleep in my bed.” The words are a little sticky but he gets them out.

He’d thought Fjord would be glad, but he only looks more hesitant. “Caleb, you don’t have to force yourself to do anythin’ you don’t want to,” he says quietly.

Caleb laughs, soft and wry. “I’m afraid it’s the other way around with me,” he says. “Everything is so fucked up in here,” and he points at his head. “Sometimes I have to force myself to do the things I want to do. And I want this.” As he says it, the words settle into him, feeling _right_. He wants Fjord’s arms around him. He wants to fall asleep to the steady sound of his breathing. That they only spent one night together before the _Tide’s Breath_ blew is a shame.

He’s said something wrong, though. Fjord looks stricken in a way he never should, and before he can think twice Caleb crosses the awkward space between them, reaching up to brush the backs his fingers across Fjord’s cheek. “Don’t look like that,” he murmurs. “Please.”

Fjord captures Caleb’s hand and brings it to his lips, his golden eyes fixed on Caleb. _How wonderful,_ thinks Caleb absurdly, his heart fluttering a little. _The chance to fall in love all over again._

“Well,” says Fjord, and smiles. “I’m, uh. Glad you’re all right with it. And if there’s anythin’ you ever want, just ask.”

If only it were that easy. But Caleb squeezes Fjord’s hand, and that too feels right, the pressure of Fjord’s calluses on his skin. “I will.”

\--

Bren wakes, and does not know where he is.

He freezes, assessing the situation. A bed so soft it swallows him like a cloud. A room with rounded windows and terracotta walls, an elaborate rug covering the tiled floor. Sunshine far brighter than a Dwendalian spring, with blooming honeysuckle trailing over the window. Frumpkin the owl, perched on the headboard with his tawny feathers fluffed and one yellow eye cracked open.

An arm around him and a body leaning against him from behind, someone breathing slow and steady in their sleep.

 _Fjord,_ thinks Caleb, looking down at the green hand draped over his chest. _Yes._ He rolls over slowly and sure enough, there is Fjord, mouth half-open in slumber, tendrils of dark hair escaping his top knot to splay across the pillow. Caleb stares at him, watching Fjord’s collarbone rise and fall with his steady breaths. In the morning light, the scars on his face are clear, his two-tone skin shifting over ropey muscles, his lower lip curving around his tusks. But his eyelashes are long and black, and his hand curls on the pillow, open and trusting.

Hesitantly, Caleb touches Fjord’s cheek, his skin cool and dry. Fjord stirs slightly in his sleep, eyelids fluttering, but doesn’t wake. Swallowing hard, Caleb draws his hand back to his chest, something new and tremulous swelling inside him. There are _flowers_ outside the window.

He can’t remember the last time he saw flowers.

It takes Caleb a little while to realize the sounds coming out of him are soft sobs, and once he does, he clamps his hands over his mouth to keep them in, not wanting to wake Fjord. Instead he trembles and tries to swallow down any noises, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Hooting softly, Frumpkin shuffles worriedly on his perch. But despite Caleb’s efforts, Fjord mumbles and blinks awake, frowning blearily at Caleb. “Cay…?”

Hands pressed to his face, Caleb stares at Fjord and tries to pull himself together. “Caleb, what’s wrong?” asks Fjord in sudden alarm, reaching for him. Caleb shakes too much to resist as Fjord pulls him to his chest, his throat choking with tears. “Darlin’, talk to me. What is it?”

His hands hover uncertainly over Caleb’s hair, and Caleb manages to pry his hands away from his face and stop gasping long enough to say, “Safe.”

Fjord’s dark eyebrows draw together, and he says, “Safe? What’s safe? Safe from what?”

“Me,” manages Caleb, and sniffles. “I’m safe.”

“Wh –” says Fjord, still bemused, his thumb brushing over Caleb’s cheek. “Yeah, you’re safe, of course you’re safe.”

Hiccupping, Caleb says, “I – I know. That is why I am crying.”

Understanding dawns on Fjord’s face and he folds Caleb close, and Caleb hangs onto him and cries himself out until his thoughts are empty and his face is a runny, drippy mess. “Sorry,” he mumbles, wiping nose on the silk sheets. “I am a mess.”

But Fjord just props himself up on one elbow with a rueful little smile. “I figured that was part of the package when I came for you.”

 _And I have no idea why you did_ , Caleb thinks, or maybe Bren, or maybe that’s Ikithon’s voice in his head. Dropping his head back to the pillows, Caleb looks Fjord over, not even sure what he’s looking for. Reassurance, maybe, or a reason why he’s here.

Fjord opens his mouth and reaches towards Caleb, then pauses and shifts back, then opens his mouth again. “May I kiss you?” he asks.

Caleb considers this. “Go slow.”

As carefully as if Caleb were made of spun glass, Fjord cups his face in his broad hand, his calluses catching on Caleb’s beard. Caleb shivers, trying to fit this feeling in somewhere among all his scattered memories. Does it belong with gentle hands on his face as saltwater laps at his naked body, or a rough hand fisting in his hair and pushing his face into the mattress, or a papery touch on his skin and the smell of plum brandy? _It belongs with now_ , he decides, looking into Fjord’s golden eyes. It belongs with a cool touch pushing his hair off his fevered brow, and it belongs with being held close as he screams and burns himself to embers.

“Caleb?” says Fjord.

Keeping his eyes open, Caleb leans in and touches his lips to Fjord’s. It feels… nice. He does it again. Fjord hums encouragingly, his fingers sliding into Caleb’s hair, and kisses him back gently. _Oh, we’ve done this before, haven’t we,_ thinks Caleb, falling into the rhythm, his skin slowly warming. Fjord’s hand slides down his neck, rubbing over the residuum, and they both freeze. “Sorry,” says Fjord. “Does it hurt?”

It does, but in kind of a good way, and Caleb’s going to unpack _that_ later. Much, much later. “It’s all right,” he says hoarsely. And at least for now, it is.


	21. Act IV, Scene 3

Caleb’s vague thought of sneaking into the Lavish Chateau kitchen in the early morning and grabbing a bite to eat without having to face breakfast in the public dining hall was sound in theory. But as he discovers on the threshold of the broad, terra cotta-tiled room, the kitchen is a whirlwind of activity as cooks and kitchen maids bustle about, pulling freshly-baked flatbreads out of the oven, turning sizzling fish on the griddle, and piling platters high with rainbows of sliced fruit. He’s about to turn tail for his room and ignore his growling stomach when he catches sight of Jester and Caduceus sitting together in a breakfast nook, bright sunlight streaming around them.

Turning into a cat, Caleb slinks along the outer wall, keeping as low to the floor as possible as he trots up to where Jester and Caduceus sit. “Oh!” says Jester, as Caleb jumps up onto the padded window seat next to her. “Hello, Caleb.”

He turns back into human. “How did you know it was me?” he says hoarsely.

Jester smiles, her hair tied up in a messy pouf with curly blue wisps framing her face and silver star-shaped charms dangling from her horns. “I just knew.”

“Hiya, Caleb,” says Caduceus pleasantly from across the table, lifting a hand. A blush-colored ceramic tea pot sits in front of him, as well as a plate of round pastries, cinnamon and raisins swirled through the flaky golden dough. Caleb eyes them hungrily but doesn’t take one. “D’you want some tea?” offers Caduceus.

“Yes, please,” rasps Caleb.

He accepts the cup Caduceus pours for him, wrapping his hands around its warmth and breathing in the smell of herbs and spices from the milky brown liquid. “I’ve never had tea like this until I came here,” remarks Caduceus. “But it’s very nice.”

Blowing on the tea to cool it a little, Caleb tastes it. It _is_ very nice. His stomach rumbles, and he glances at the pastries again. “Do you want a pastry?” asks Jester knowingly.

“I…” Caleb’s ears turn red and he hides his face behind his cup.

“Have one!” Jester hands him a pastry. “They’re really good, they make them with cinnamon here.”

Delicately accepting the pastry, Caleb murmurs, “I can tell,” and takes a bite. It’s delicious, buttery and sweet and spiced, and he eats it slowly to make the flavors last longer.

Jester watches him, one hand propping up her chin. “Is that something Ikithon did to you?” she asks softly. “Not allow you to eat?”

The pastry turns to dust in Bren’s mouth and he swallows, staring at her. “What?”

Flushing a little, Jester says, “I just noticed, you never eat unless someone gives you food or permission. I wondered if that was because of him.”

Memories of those excruciating breakfasts with Ikithon twist painfully in Bren’s stomach, and he sets his half-eaten pastry down. “I guess,” he mutters.

“Oh, Caleb, it’s okay, you can keep eating,” says Jester, distressed. “I didn’t mean to make you stop…”

“It’s all right,” says Caduceus easily. His broad ears are pink with the morning light shining through them, and his braided hair falls over his shoulder in a heavy rope. The sunlight on the fine gray fuzz covering his face makes him look dusted with silver.

Bren forces himself to finish the pastry and picks up his tea again. As he sips at it, Molly, Yasha, and Beau stride into the kitchen together from the outside. Molly catches Caduceus’ eye and leads the other two straight over, kitchen staff dodging around them with annoyed looks.

“Well, hello,” says Molly, dropping onto Caduceus’ lap. He’s replaced his old, faded coat with a new one of even more gaudily-patterned silk, cut calf-length with broad sleeves in the Nicodranian style. Jester scoots over on the seat, pushing Caleb along with her, so that Beau and Yasha have space to sit beside her. “Morning, Caleb. Jester.”

“How was your walk?” asks Jester.

Yasha smiles a little, her lips painted dark blue. “It was nice.”

“We, uh, heard some news,” says Beau, and glances at Caleb as she takes a pastry. Molly reaches for the same one, and she swats his hand away. “Caleb? You hear about what’s happening?”

Caleb freezes with the teacup at his lips. “Oh,” says Molly, raising his eyebrows and snagging a pastry. “So you haven’t heard.”

“Heard what?” manages Caleb, a chill creeping over him. The residuum in his neck and arms feels very hot.

Beau and Molly exchange significant looks. “The Zemni Fields declared open rebellion two days ago,” says Beau, tearing her pastry into pieces with long fingers. “A Crownsguard barracks was burned down with nearly an entire garrison inside. Yrossa is under military lockdown.”

Bren stares at nothing, hearing the flames of Rerik crackle and roar around him. Distantly, he thinks some part of him should be glad, but all he can feel is dread so potent it borders on anger.

“Caleb?” says Jester hesitantly, bringing him back to his surroundings. Everyone is staring at him.

“Hm?”

“Your tea…”

Bren looks down and realizes the tea in his cup is boiling. Hastily, he sets it on the table, steadfastly ignoring everyone watching him. “You okay?” says Beau.

“Yeah,” mutters Bren, the kitchen shrinking in around him, the noise of pots and pans and shouted orders and chopping knives and bubbling pots and everyone’s eyes are on him and the air is too close and he can feel fire under his fingertips – “Excuse me,” he mutters, and turns into a sparrow.

He flies up and out through an open window, leaving behind Beau’s bemused “What the fuck?” and fluttering out into the sunshine. As he flies up over the Chateau, he spots a small hooded figure crouched on the roof, gazing out over the city.

Caleb lands beside Nott, whose yellow eyes widen hungrily before Caleb turns back into human. “Oh,” she says. “Hi.”

“Hello.” Caleb draws his knees up to his chest, bracing his feet on the roof tiles. Nicodranus stretches before them, a mosaic of terra cotta roofs and flowering terraces, the domed roofs of temples shining with gold and colored glass inlays. Far in the distance, the mountains of Xarath Kitril are indigo against the forget-me-not sky. “It is a beautiful view.”

Nott grunts. “Better than down there,” she says. “Everyone looks at me like I’m going to rob them blind.”

“And are you?”

Reaching into her ragged gray tunic, Nott draws out a handful of buttons in a variety of gleaming metals, some intricately cast, others coated in fine silk. “These are nice,” she says.

With a little smile, Caleb says, “I don’t think their owners will miss them too much.”

“Probably not,” admits Nott. “Do you think they’ll miss these?” And from another pocket she pulls out a fistful of jewelry, gold bands and brilliant gemstones glittering in the sunlight. Caleb catches sight of a diamond the size of an almond, and of a heavy golden ring that looks suspiciously like a noble’s seal.

“Oh, ah,” stammers Caleb. “Maybe they will miss those.”

“Well, then they should keep better care of them,” says Nott. “And not pretend they’re too good to talk to me.” Bitterness twists her voice.

“Ach,” says Caleb in quiet sympathy. “Their loss.”

Chuckling, Nott stows her treasures back under her tunic. “Literally.”

Wrapping his arms around his knees, Caleb settles himself, the sea wind toying with his hair. “I seem to recall you hating the sea,” he says, and glances down at her finger where the Ring of Water Walking rests. For a second, it seems to glimmer, and Bren thinks of Astrid and the residuum in her eyes and looks away quickly. “So why are you still sailing with Fjord?”

“Because of _you_ , dummy,” says Nott. “You promised to teach me magic, remember?”

“That was…” How long ago was that? Bren tries to count, but the numbers get scrambled. It had been warm, though, and the days were long. Summer. “That was almost year ago.”

Nott’s ears flatten, and she hunches her shoulders up. “I really want to learn,” she mutters, but as she glances aside at Caleb, her cheeks darken with a flush.

 _Oh,_ thinks Caleb, pretending to ignore Nott for her dignity’s sake. A strange fondness wells up in him for the little goblin, and he taps his feet on the tiles. “Well, the way our friend Fjord tells it, you have been doing quite well on your own,” he says. “I am not sure I will have anything left to teach you.”

Nott glances meaningfully at the residuum peeking out from under his sleeve. “We’ll see about that.”

\--

Docked in the Nicodranus harbor, the _Leviathan_ rocks gently with the waves, mirroring the way Caleb moves with Fjord, their lips brushing together. Though Fjord’s bunk is nowhere near as expansive as their bed in the Lavish Chateau, Caleb likes this better. The Lavish Chateau is full of guests and courtesans and servants and he never really feels like he can trust them but _here_ , it’s just him and Fjord.

Kissing Fjord is still both new and familiar, Caleb’s muscles knowing what to do even if his thoughts get a little tangled up. Caleb lays on Fjord’s chest, tracing the angles of his jaw as Fjord’s hands slide down his waist. A trail of goosebumps follow his touch, and Caleb carefully explores Fjord’s throat with his lips, kissing along rough skin and the dips between tendons. “Mngh,” says Fjord, throwing his head back. “Cay…”

Eyes fixed on Fjord, Caleb pulls Fjord’s loose white shirt out from his pants and slides his hands up Fjord’s stomach, feeling hard muscles ripple and his chest jump with a sharp inhale. The bulge in Fjord’s pants is obvious, and Caleb carefully does not touch it as he pushes Fjord’s shirt up far enough so he can mouth at the scars on Fjord’s chest. Fjord groans again, one arm over his eyes and his other hand tucked firmly behind his head, as if scared he might touch Caleb. “God, Caleb,” he says, voice husky with arousal, and a shiver runs down Caleb’s spine. “You’re so…”

His voice trails off as Caleb kisses along his collarbone, the shirt riding higher over Fjord’s chest. Sparse black hairs grow in the shallow valley between Fjord’s pectorals, the scar Yasha left him jagged and ugly on the yellow-green skin of his stomach. Trailing his fingers down Fjord’s sides, Caleb digs his thumbs into the points of Fjord’s hips.

With a sudden grunt, Fjord throws his shirt off and seizes Caleb, pulling him into an urgent kiss. They roll over in the bunk, Fjord’s weight bearing down on Caleb, his lips heavy on his, his hands covering his head and face, and it’s intimate, it’s _too_ intimate, somebody else’s touch on Caleb’s skin and somebody else’s mouth on his and it’s strange it’s strange _it’s strange_ and Bren doesn’t want to be in this body anymore –

 _No,_ growls Caleb, stiff as Fjord kisses him. _I’m going to enjoy this._ If he just ignores the strangeness, he can get through this. He’s fine.

But Fjord’s intensity gentles and he pulls back, frowning as Caleb blinks his eyes open. “Cay?”

It takes Caleb a second to remember how to talk. “What.”

“You okay?”

“Fine,” says Caleb, ignoring the way his heart hammers in his tight throat. _Let’s keep going,_ he tries to say, but his jaw and tongue are wooden.

Sighing, Fjord sits back, pushing his disheveled hair out of his face. “No, you’re not,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to force yourself.”

Caleb pushes himself up on his elbows. He’s not going to think about dry hands seeking under his robes. He’s with _Fjord_. He’s safe. “I want this, Fjord, I am – I want to keep going –”

“Yeah, well, I don’t.” Fjord leans against the back panel of the bunk with a sad smile. “Call me strange, but I ain’t exactly turned on by you lyin’ there and grittin’ your teeth through the whole thing.” His expression softens, and he adds, “We can take it slow, Caleb. It’s okay.”

Furious tears sting Caleb’s eyes at the gentleness in his voice, the _pity_ , and he sits up with his back pressed to the opposite panel, toes nearly touching Fjord’s but not quite. _I am broken_ , is all he can think, crossing his arms tightly. _Broken and a disgrace._ He’s aware of Fjord watching him helplessly but can’t bear to meet his eyes, warring anger and shame choking him. The residuum warms and pulses, and he picks at it, nails digging under the hard edge until it hurts.

“Say somethin’,” says Fjord.

Caleb glares at him through watery eyes. “Like what?” he rasps.

“I…” Fjord sighs and shakes his head, hands falling limply into his lap. “It ain’t your fault, Caleb.”

Not his fault. Villagers scream in their burning homes as Ikithon smiles and slides residuum under Bren’s skin. “Does that matter?”

Frowning, Fjord tilts his head. “It’s got to,” he says. “At least a little bit. Don’t it?”

For that, Caleb has no answer.

\--

Fjord starts awake to Caleb struggling in the sheets beside him, damp with sweat. “Get them out,” Caleb pants, his back to Fjord’s chest, “get them out, _get them out –_ ”

“Whoa whoa whoa, hey!” Adrenaline jolting away his drowsiness, Fjord rolls over to get his arms around Caleb as he digs his nails frantically into his forearm. “Caleb – Caleb, stop that –” Fjord grabs Caleb’s hands, holding them tight against his chest, his chin over Caleb’s shoulder. “Easy there.”

Caleb growls and writhes in his arms. “Let go of me.”

“Well, quit squirmin’ around like a damn octopus and maybe I will.”

Growling again, Caleb jerks his wrists against Fjord’s hold, and then abruptly relaxes, his head dropping. “Hey,” says Fjord quietly, slowly unwrapping his fingers. Moonlight shines through the cracks of the curtains drawn over the _Leviathan’s_ mullioned windows. From his perch on the deck, Frumpkin swivels his head around completely, owlish eyes wide. “You back with me?”

“Ja,” sighs Caleb.

Kissing Caleb’s sweaty hair, Fjord massages Caleb’s palms gently, working tension out of his curled fingers. “Do they hurt?”

“What?”

“Those crystals.”

Caleb grunts, turning his arm over. The strange crystalline scales glow softly in the darkness, like embers in Caleb’s skin. “Do you know what this is?” he says.

“You said it was activated residuum.” 

“Do you know what residuum is?”

“Can’t say I do,” Fjord admits.

“Not surprising, it is not commonly discussed outside of academic circles.” Caleb recites dry and flat, like reading off a book. “Residuum is the distilled and hardened essence of a certain type of stone mined in Tal’Dorei. It acts as a great conductor of magical energy, such that in can be substituted for components in nearly all types of spells and magics.”

“I see,” says Fjord slowly, tucking his chin over Caleb’s shoulder. “Let me guess. Ikithon did some kind of magic to… to what, to bind that to you?”

Caleb traces a finger over one of the silvery scars that criss-cross his forearm. “No, the truth is much simpler than that,” he murmurs. “He cut me open and put the residuum inside.”

Blinding anger, as deep and hungry as a maelstrom, sweeps over Fjord. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath, willing himself to be still. He can feel Caleb’s heart pounding hard through his back. “Yeah,” Fjord manages at last, and clears his throat savagely. “I can see why you want these out.”

Caleb takes three carefully measured breaths. “I am not sure they can come out,” he says.

Ice creeps over Fjord’s skin. “What do you mean?”

Caleb sighs. “There was a woman, ah, Astrid, a former classmate of mine – she and I were talking, on the day after we fought you in Yrossa, and – ah, scheiβe, I had better start this from the beginning, hadn’t I?”

“If you like,” says Fjord cautiously, tracing slow circles over Caleb’s elbow. Trying not to spook the hawk.

Fjord knows he’s in for a horror show, so he makes an effort to keep himself still and quiet as Caleb recites the details of washing up outside Nicodranus, making his way into town, and being apprehended by Volstrucker, even though it hurts his heart that they were so close to each other without even knowing. When Caleb describes being hung up in a dungeon for three days without food, however, Fjord can’t help an angry exclamation, his arms tightening around Caleb. “I know,” says Caleb dryly, his knobby spine digging into Fjord’s chest. “But that is not the worst.”

And it isn’t. Fjord keeps his cool until Caleb, in a voice flatter then ever, mentions kneeling for Ikithon, and then Fjord has to get out of bed, moving awkwardly around Caleb until he can get on his feet and stalk across the cabin. His orcish half in a snarling fury, Fjord resists the urge to punch the wall or sweep his desk clear, instead pacing in a tight circuit. Frumpkin’s head swivels to follow him. “That son of a bitch,” growls Fjord, anger pounding in his temples. “He should have never – I’ll make him pay, Caleb, I swear to –” He stops, staring at Caleb, who watches him from the dark cave of the bunk with the orange light of the residuum reflected in his eyes. Fjord’s never really attached himself to a god; if he needs a deity to swear by, he usually just uses the Changebringer like most others out of Darktow. But that sort of promise don’t mean much now. “I swear by Uk’atoa,” promises Fjord, and as the words leave his lips, either it’s his imagination or the ship shudders. “Ikithon will pay for what he did to you.”

Caleb watches him, expression unfathomable. “That is not the worst, either,” he says.

Of course it’s not. Fjord swallows hard, feeling sick. “I know,” he says, and rejoins Caleb on the bed. “Tell me.”

He manages to keep himself under control as Caleb narrates the rest of his time under Ikithon, up until the burning of Rerik. As the dark cabin finally falls silent, anger and horror and guilt war in Fjord so fiercely he can barely think. “I’m sorry, Caleb,” he says at last, because he can find no other words. “For all of it.”

“I know.” Caleb lies flat on his back, staring up at the wooden ceiling, while Fjord props himself up on his elbow beside him. “I told you I would tell you.”

“You did, and I’m real grateful,” says Fjord softly, because now more than ever he knows how hard it was to win Caleb’s trust back. “Thank you.”

Hands folded over his stomach, Caleb grunts. The loose collar of his shirt falls open, exposing the orange crystals creeping along the side of his neck and over his collarbone down towards his chest. “So if the residuum grew through Eodwulf and Astrid like that, then I am sure it is doing the same to me,” he says.

Right, that had been the whole point of this, hadn’t it, and Fjord takes a second to bring himself back to the topic at hand. “So if the crystals were growin’ into Eodwulf’s brain and Astrid’s eyes, where are they growin’ on you?” he says cautiously, dreading the answer.

“I think it is too early to tell,” murmurs Caleb. “Astrid and Eodwulf lived with this for years.”

Fjord feels sick at what he’s about to ask, but he has to say it anyway. “Everythin’ Ikithon did to you, the crystals, the memory modification, the…” He can’t even say the word. “Did he do that when you were a kid too?”

The look Caleb gives him clearly says he knows what Fjord is too afraid to come out and ask. “Some of it,” he rasps. “The modifying memories, obviously. The residuum, well,” and he gestures to the scars on his arms. “It was not the activated crystals, but his experiments were numerous.” Sighing through his nose, Caleb stares back up at the ceiling. “He never touched me, not like that. I suspected with Astrid, maybe, but we never talked about it with her. With me, I got the sense he was… biding his time.”

“Changebringer alive,” mutters Fjord, only marginally relieved. “What a piece of shit.”

Caleb snorts, and then his expression grows sad. “I wanted him to love me,” he murmurs. “I was deathly afraid of him, and yet I wanted nothing more than his approval.”

“Well, you don’t need none of that now,” says Fjord fiercely. “Not a single damn thing.”

Smiling slightly, Caleb looks over at Fjord and rests the backs of his curled fingers against Fjord’s cheek. Gestures of affection from Caleb are still rare, and Fjord fixes this one in his memory, the way Caleb’s touch feels against his skin. “I know,” Caleb says softly. “Do not think –” and he clears his throat. “Don’t think I don’t see you, Fjord. You are giving me far more care than I deserve.”

Capturing Caleb’s fingers, Fjord brings them to his lips. “I just wish I could do more.”

“You can’t,” says Caleb, and he doesn’t say it like an accusation, but it stings Fjord all the same. “It’s all right. Go to sleep, Fjord.”

That night, Fjord dreams.

He hasn’t dreamed of Uk’atoa since rescuing Caleb, and dared to hope a little that the ancient entity had forgotten him for the moment. But here he floats in water dark as sin, with the great yellow eye dwarfing him.

_OBEY._

“I – I know,” says Fjord. “What would you have me do?”

The water surges around him, suddenly boiling hot, and Fjord feels pain but not nearly as much as he should. As the bubbles rise up, they bring other things with them – wraiths, decomposing bits of bodies, corpses long dead. One bony hand clasps his wrist as it drifts upward, and Fjord stares at the body it belongs to. The face is moldering and half eaten away, but he recognizes the thin features of Trent Ikithon. “Why?” he says. “Why do you care if he dies?”

 _STRENGTH_.

Fjord swallows. “Will it make me stronger if I kill him?”

The great eye blinks, and when it opens again the iris is no longer gold but a deep, bloody crimson. A light like fire flickers in the depths of the slit pupil.

_RAGE._

Right. Fjord can do that. He thinks back to the litany of horrors Caleb recited for him, and anger swells in his chest, constricting his throat.

He can do that very well.

\--

Swallowing hard, Caleb rolls his sleeves past the elbow, the hard wooden chair pressing against his back, Frumpkin perched on his shoulder. The galley of the _Leviathan_ is firmly Caduceus’ domain, with strange mosses and lichens growing out of the walls and a barrel of living fungus in the corner. But the silver knife and linen cloths he lays on the table are meticulously clean. “I can’t promise how this will go,” says Caduceus, crumbling herbs into a bowl of steaming water. Their medicinal scent fills the room. “It may not go well.”

“Well, we don’t need to make any decisions yet, just know what we’re dealin’ with,” says Fjord shortly. Bren has a hard time looking at him when he’s irritated, but tries to remind himself Fjord’s not angry at _him._ He’s just worried, with his arms folded across his chest as he paces behind Caleb.

Caduceus looks to Caleb for confirmation, a frown wrinkling his forehead. “Are you ready?”

No, but it doesn’t matter. Bren lays his forearm flat on the table, heart thudding so loud in his chest everyone else must be able to hear it. Sitting down beside him, Yasha quietly says, “Here,” and holds out a leather strap.

Bren doesn’t need to ask what it’s for. He puts it in his mouth, the taste of leather heavy on his tongue.

On his other side, Caduceus wets a cloth in the steeped herb water and wipes it along Bren’s forearm, cleaning it. Shuffling his feet, Frumpkin hoots quietly and nibbles at Caleb’s ear. “All right,” Caduceus says, and picks up the knife.

The first cut isn’t as bad as Bren thought it would be: a quick slice of pain, and he hisses around the leather strap, but that’s it. Caduceus presses the damp cloth to the wound and Bren winces, his other hand tightening on the arm of the chair. Gently, Cadueceus pulls the skin away from the residuum, and _that_ hurts. Bren stiffens, biting on the leather. “Huh,” says Caduceus.

Fjord immediately steps up behind Caleb, peering over his shoulder. “What? What is it?”

“Look at that,” says Caduceus. Mastering himself, Bren tries to see what it is, but Caduceus’ hands are in the way. “It’s growing into him.” He frowns, probing lightly. “Makes me think of… well, I don’t know. Never mind. Something else.”

Bren exhales slowly, closing his eyes, Frumpkin’s feathers tickling his ear. He’s fine. They’re trying to help. It’s fine.

“Can you take them out?” asks Yasha.

“Let’s see,” and Caduceus tugs gently on the residuum.

Agony shoots up Bren’s arm, all his nerve endings on fire, and he howls through the strap, rocking back in the chair. Yasha leaps up to keep him from falling backwards and he cries out again as Frumpkin flaps madly, _it hurts it hurts IT HURTS_ –

“Stop it!” roars Fjord. “Clay!”

The pain releases and Bren slumps back in the chair, panting, tears in his eyes. The wooden plank walls of the galley overlap with the dark panels of Ikithon’s study, Fjord glaring at Caduceus with his lower jaw jutted out while Caduceus shrinks back, ears pinned flat and nostrils flared, and Ikithon smiles down at Bren while his long fingers pry Bren open –

Ears ringing, Bren spits the strap out and staggers to his feet, moving back, moving away. His back hits the wall and he slides down to the floor, gasping, his hands shaking and blood running down his forearm. The others are talking but it just sounds like noise.

Floorboards creak as someone crouches in front of Bren, and green hands carefully cradle his own. “Hey,” says Fjord, fuzzy in Bren’s ears. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Bren gasps for air in high-pitched bursts. Slowly and carefully, Fjord wraps a cloth around the cut on Bren’s forearm, blood blooming on the white fabric. “You’re okay,” Fjord repeats gently as he ties off the bandage. “Just breathe, all right? You’re okay.”

Gulping back tears, Bren repeats that to himself. He’s okay. They’re not trying to hurt him. They’re not putting more residuum in. He’s okay. Talons prick his shoulder as Frumpkin lands, nestling up against his neck.

“Breathe,” says Fjord again, his thumbs rubbing circles into Bren’s hands. “You’re okay.”

Gradually, he masters himself, feeling coming back to his extremities as his thoughts stop flinging themselves against the inside of his skull. Smoke hangs in the air, his footprints sooty on the floor. Caduceus and Yasha stand a little ways back, watching with concern, and Bren’s cheeks turn hot with shame. “Sorry,” he mutters, not able to look Fjord in the eyes.

“You don’t need to apologize,” says Fjord, still in that steady reassuring tone, and Caleb kind of wants to lay down and burst into tears right there. “It’s our fault.”

“Yeah,” says Caduceus ruefully. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking about it.”

Yasha kneels by Caleb as well, holding one pale hand out to him. Confused, Bren lets her take his arm and unwrap the bandage, revealing the slice along the edge of the residuum, blood smeared over his skin. Her pearly skin shimmers, and tingling energy dissipates across Bren’s skin as the cut closes. “There,” she murmurs.

“So.” Caleb takes a deep breath and looks up at Caduceus. “These are not coming out, then.”

Caduceus shrugs. “There might be a way with magic,” he says. “I don’t really know. I’ve never seen anything like this.” His rose-colored eyes meet Caleb’s, his pupils rectangular. “There’s also the question of if you _want_ the crystals out.”

“What?” demands Fjord. “Of course he does, they’ll kill him eventually –”

“We don’t know that, Fjord,” interrupts Caleb hoarsely. “It could be years before they start to do harm, and even then…”

Fjord frowns from his crouch, weight on his toes. “You want them in?”

For a moment, Bren pauses, not knowing how to explain to Fjord that even though the idea of a foreign entity taking over his body is terrifying, he’s not ready to let go of the power it grants him, and then he can’t help a laugh as he realizes Fjord knows exactly what that feels like. “I do,” he says. “You want your demigod’s blessing, don’t you?”

Understanding darkens Fjord’s expression. “Uk’atoa ain’t about to kill me, though.”

“We don’t know if these will either,” counters Caleb.

“I thought they killed Eodwulf.”

 _Technically, he killed himself,_ Bren nearly says, but he hates the thought and his throat tightens. “Astrid still lives,” he says hoarsely instead. “Fjord, if there is a way to get them out, then – then I will consider it, I promise. But we don’t have that yet. And until then, I will need them.” He thinks about rebellion in the north, and Ikithon smiling at him out of the flames, and his fist clenches as warmth flares in the residuum. “We have work to do.” 


	22. Act V, Scene 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit sexual content.

Fjord takes on half a dozen passengers for their voyage back up to Port Damali, all of them with heavy purses and a preference for minding their own business. The last bit of platinum left from Lorenzo he keeps locked away safely, just in case, and uses the fares to provision the ship and pay his crew. Doesn’t hurt to have a couple of respectable trips to his name before he starts hoisting the black flag, either. And if his passengers look askance at Fjord’s motley crew, well, he can’t blame them. At least they have the good sense to not ask questions or poke their noses in where they shouldn’t.

Unlike _some_ people on his ship.

“Listen, I’m telling you because no one else will,” argues Molly, tail swishing as he catches up with Fjord in the hallway to the captain’s quarters. “He’s not coming back, not the way you want him to, at least.”

Fjord, already cranky from lack of sleep after Caleb spent most of the night screaming from night terrors, glowers at Molly. “Oh, you’re real sure of that, huh?”

“Reasonably, yeah.” Molly glares back, and there’s no glare like a tiefling glare. Hot fingers prick the back of Fjord’s neck. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s doing great, but he’ll never be the same.”

“That’s rich, comin’ from you.” Fjord throws the door to his quarters open and turns around, blocking Molly. “How many times have we sat around waitin’ for you to come back now? Four? Five?”

Teeth bared, Molly hisses. “At least you know it’s me coming back every time.”

Fjord grunts, unimpressed. “I ain’t so sure about that. Seems like you’re takin’ the piss more and more every day.”

“Fjord –”

“The hell is your problem, anyway? You’ve done nothin’ but complain ever since we decided to rescue Caleb.” Fjord frowns at Molly; on both a personal level and as a captain, he needs to get to the bottom of this before it causes even more upset. “Somethin’ I need to know about?”

Molly grimaces, his tail lashing back and forth. “It’s complicated,” he mutters, looking at the wall to the left of Fjord.

Folding his arms, Fjord says, “Try me.”

Molly’s scarlet eyes meet him in a challenge. “Well you see, I had a very traumatic childhood –”

“Nope. Try again.”

“Fine,” says Molly, lip curling. “I’m worried about bringing a fire mage onto a _wooden ship –_ ”

“Valid concern, but that ain’t what’s eatin’ at you,” says Fjord. “Try again.”

It takes Molly a few minutes of grumbling and scuffing at the floor before he finally sighs, shoulders dropping in defeat. “I didn’t wake up with all these tattoos,” he says, rolling back his sleeve to expose the elaborate floral sleeve that covers him from the wrist up. A scarlet eye is inked onto both the front and back of his hand. “Just the eyes.” And he tugs his collar aside to show Fjord another red eye on his neck.

Not entirely sure where this is going, Fjord says, “All right, and?”

“And I don’t know where they came from or what they mean, and every time I do magic they glow,” snaps Molly. “Judging by what that Cree woman said, they weren’t a feature of the previous owner of this body. So what does it mean that I rose from the dead after a mysterious ritual, marked with eyes and powers unlike any tiefling I’ve ever met?”

Before Fjord can say he has no idea what it means, Molly continues, “And you have some mysterious pact with a sealed-away leviathan. Not to mention Caddy’s divine powers, or Yasha’s mysterious past, or have you _heard_ the way Jester talks about her God? And now we have Caleb in the mix, with a boatload of trauma and powers to match, and…” Molly grimaces, rubbing at the back of his neck. “The way we’re all coming together, it feels like it’s part of something bigger. And I don’t _like_ it. I don’t want to be part of something bigger.”

“I think you might be overthinkin’ things,” says Fjord slowly.

“Am I?” counters Molly. “As far as I can tell, I’m the _only_ one thinking about things, including that monk! You’re all so obsessed with saving Caleb you’re not paying attention to what lies ahead –”

 _RAGE,_ says Uk’atoa, his eye red as blood. Fjord takes a deep breath, water dancing at his fingertips. “I hear you,” he says, keeping his voice carefully controlled. “And I’m keepin’ it in mind, I am. But we can only handle one problem at a time.”

Molly narrows his eyes, tail whipping back and forth again. “Evidently.”

The last drops of Fjord’s patience vanish. “You got a problem, you can leave at Port Damali,” he snaps. “Until then, I don’t want to hear another word about it, understood?”

“Fjord –”

“I’m done talkin’ about this,” and he steps into his cabin, slamming the door behind him.

\--

“For the record,” says Beau, “this is an absolutely fucking bonkers idea, and I am so here for it.”

From his seat beside Caleb, Fjord says dryly, “You referrin’ to us strollin’ back into the Empire even though we’ve probably all got bounties on our heads, or us plottin’ to be the first ones to kill an Archmage since the Cerberus Assembly was formed?”

“Both?” says Beau. “Yeah, both.”

It sounds so easy when Fjord says it like that, just three little words. _Kill an Archmage._ Caleb pries unseeingly at the residuum in his arm until it stings. All the others gathered around the table do him the courtesy of pretending they don’t see it. Frumpkin, draped across his shoulders, chatters in his ear; his current form is a pine marten with thick brown-gold fur, cuddlier than an owl but unlikely to trigger Fjord’s allergies.

Whether it was Fjord or Caleb’s idea to kill Ikithon, Caleb doesn’t remember. It doesn’t matter anyway, it needs to be done. Whether for the Zemnians fighting for their freedom, or for the next batch of young minds Ikithon seeks to corrupt, or for revenge. It doesn’t matter.

Bending over the table, Fjord unfurls a map of the Empire and uses knives to stake down the corners. Beau winces. “Dude, you’re chipping the table.”

“It’s my table, I’ll chip it if I want,” mutters Fjord. Yasha leans over the map beside him, ombré braids swinging over her shoulder. Outside the latticed windows, the ocean sparkles deep and blue in the afternoon sun.

“So here’s the plan,” says Nott, planting her hands on the table with a toothy grin splitting her face. “We storm into Rexxentrum, blast into the Sanatorium, find Trent Ikithon. No survivors, only revenge. That’s how I see it going down.”

Beside her, Jester bares white fangs in a smile and whispers, “Fluffernutter.”

“Do I _want_ to know what fluffernutter is?” says Fjord.

“No,” say Molly and Beau in unison.

“We can’t take him in the Sanatorium,” mutters Caleb. “It’s his lair, he has it surrounded in spellwork. Same for his estate.”

Fjord nods grimly, probably recalling the failed rescue attempt. “So we need to draw him out.”

“Out of the city entirely, right?” says Beau. “He’s got allies in Rexxentrum, and besides –”

“– we don’t want to fight in the streets,” muses Fjord. “Too much collateral damage.”

Bren shivers, seeing entire city blocks razed in Ikithon’s bids to protect himself. Villages burned to ash, parents screaming over their dead children, flames licking the sky, except – that’s him, isn’t it. He did that.

“Caleb?” says Fjord.

This time everyone _is_ looking at him, and Bren hastily pulls his sleeve down over his wrist. “We can’t fight him in the city,” he rasps.

Yasha thoughtfully taps Rexxentrum on the map. “How do we get him out, then?”

“Flush him out?” suggests Beau. “Maybe if we scare him enough, he’ll run.”

“You ever tried to scare an animal out of their den?” counters Caduceus. “They just hunker in deeper.”

Tail swishing thoughtfully and hands propped on his hips, Molly says, “Is there another way we could draw him out? Taunt him, maybe?”

“And how would that work?”

“Well, if we rile him up enough…”

Their voices overlap, filling the cabin of the _Leviathan._ Bren picks at the crystals in his arm again until blood seeps under his fingernails, bright little prickles of pain in his skin. The image of Ikithon smiling fills his mind’s eye, his thin lips curled upwards as his fingers creep along Bren’s skin, across his collarbone and up his neck. And those terrible bright eyes, always fixed on him, watching. Waiting. “He’ll come out for me,” he says, hollow in his own ears. “I know it.”

Silence falls around the room. “No,” says Fjord. “Absolutely not.”

Bren doesn’t say anything, just looks at Fjord. He knows he’s right.

Sighing, Fjord drops his head into his hands. “Fuck.”

“You don’t have to, you know,” says Caduceus. “No one is asking this of you. You don’t have to go if you think it’ll be a bad time.”

“Oh, it will be,” says Bren calmly, Frumpkin’s tail tickling his neck. “That is why I have to go.”

Next to him, Jester takes his hand, and Bren manages a smile for her. “You won’t be alone this time,” she says. “You’ll have us.”

“Yeah,” says Beau. “Fuck Ikithon, am I right?”

“ _Fuck_ Ikithon,” echoes Nott.

Fjord’s knuckles whiten as he glares down at the map, white-streaked lock of hair falling in his face. “How would it work?” he says flatly.

The words roll of Bren’s tongue as easily as if he had planned this before, though he can only see one step at a time. “We head out into the Zemni Fields. We make ourselves known, aiding the revolution. Ikithon will send his Volstrucker out first. We neutralize them. _I_ neutralize them. Eventually he will come himself, and then…” Bren shrugs, the residuum growing hot against his skin. “Das ist die Ende.”

Fjord meets his gaze, yellow eyes worried. “You don’t think he’ll know it’s a trap?”

“I think he will know but not care,” says Bren carefully. “Too confident in his abilities and too desperate to claim me a third time.” Shuddering, Beau makes a face of disgust. “We just have to not play our hand too openly.”

He looks around at everyone at the table, gauging their reactions: Jester, who still holds his hand; Nott, unscrewing a silver flask in a carefully careless manner; Molly, arms folded across his chest as he chews his lip, pointedly looking away from the table; Caduceus and the little frown wrinkling his otherwise calm demeanor; Beau, who glances from under her fierce eyebrows at Yasha, who watches Bren with grave sympathy; and lastly Fjord, who gnaws his lower lip, the tendons in his neck and arms showing his internal struggle. “Of course, it is up to you, Captain,” says Bren, and Fjord sighs and drops his head. “But that is what I would recommend.”

“Yeah,” mutters Fjord, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah, I get it. I know.” He smiles ruefully at Bren. “And I thought you said you weren’t a tactician. Look at you.”

Bren frowns, not recalling that phrase. “Did I?”

“I could have sworn you… Never mind. All right.” Sighing, Fjord straightens. “Sounds like we have a plan, then.”

“The beginnings of one,” clarifies Caduceus, and Fjord snorts.

They spend another hour discussing planning and logistics, until Caleb’s head starts to hurt and he retreats back into himself, idly petting Frumpkin. He knows his role, and although the thought of facing Ikithon again makes him sick, the thought of living the rest of his life always looking over his shoulder makes him sicker.

The sudden scraping of chairs brings him back to the table as everyone stands to leave. Caduceus lingers, though. “Caleb,” he says, strangely tentative. “Can I talk to you?” With a smile, he glances over at Frumpkin and does a little wave. “Hi.”

Clearing his throat, Caleb stands too. “Ja, sure,” he says hoarsely. “What is it?” On the other side of the room, Fjord busies himself with maps.

“The, uh. The things you have in your arms.” Caduceus’ voice is as gravelly as Caleb’s, though deeper. “What is it?”

Caleb blinks, not expecting this line of inquiry. “It’s an awakened form of residuum,” he says. “Do you know residuum?”

A brief, bemused smile lights Caduceus’ face. “Never heard of it.”

“It is, um.” He just explained this to Fjord, didn’t he. “Residuum is the refined form of a kind of stone mined across the sea, in Tal’dorei. It has magical resonance that allows it to substitute for spell components and amplify arcane energies. Ikithon discovered that by exposing it to fire and then water of a certain salinity, certain properties could be unlocked that made it grow like a living thing.”

Caduceus frowns, holding his hands like he wishes he had something in them to investigate. “Huh. Fire and water, you say?”

“Ja, why?”

Frown deepening until he looks profoundly troubled, Caduceus says, “I don’t – I don’t know. I think I should know, but I don’t.” His ears droop, and he half-reaches towards Caleb’s arm where the residuum faintly glows through the cotton of his shirt. “I feel like it was something very important, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it is.”

“I know how that feels,” murmurs Caleb.

That startles a laugh out of Caduceus, which Caleb finds he likes: a warm, steady sound that comes from his chest. “Yeah, I reckon you do,” he says. “Anyway. Thank you for answering my questions, I know it’s not an easy thing to talk about.”

“No, but you are an easy fellow to talk to, Caduceus,” says Caleb, surprising himself with a little smile. “I hope you find what you are looking for.”

A wistful expression crosses Caduceus’ face. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.” And he puts a hand on Caleb’s shoulder and leaves.

The door shuts behind him, and then it’s just Fjord and Caleb in the captain’s quarters. Fjord rolls up the map he was looking at and ties it closed, leaning back against the stately wooden desk. “You okay?” he says.

There could be any number of things he’s referring to, which Caleb doesn’t know if he can parse at the moment. “Fine,” he says instead.

Fjord’s mouth lifts in an understanding smile. “You sure about this?” he says, crossing over to join Caleb. “Caduceus is right, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“No,” murmurs Caleb. “No, I know. I have to.”

Watching him intently, Fjord says, “But what about what you _want_? Whatever it is, whether it’s to run, or find some absolution, or finish this on a personal level, let me know.”

Caleb sighs, rubbing at his neck. “What I want is immaterial,” he says. “I will never be free as long as Ikithon is alive, and so…” He shrugs, meeting Fjord’s eyes. “He needs to die.”

Fierce affection crosses Fjord’s face and he captures Caleb’s hand, pressing his lips to his bare palm. “Darlin’, if you wanted his head on a silver platter, all you had to do was ask.”

Caleb can’t help a little laugh at how unexpectedly reassuring that is, warmth spreading across his chest. “That is very romantic of you,” he says, and taps his thumb on Fjord’s mouth. “But I need to be there myself. I need to do it myself. Otherwise, how can I be sure?”

“And you don’t think it’ll be a risk, bein’ that close to him again?”

Sighing, Caleb drops his hand to Fjord’s shoulder, Fjord’s hand sliding over his waist. “It is a risk,” he says. “But a calculated one. Worth the payoff.”

“Good to know, calculated risks. I’ll keep that in mind.” Fjord’s other hand comes down on Caleb’s hip, pulling him closer, and the warmth moves lower down Caleb’s body, anticipation drawing his insides tight. Fjord’s face is _very_ close to his, and Caleb sends Frumpkin away in a burst of purple sparks. “I thought you liked to play things close to the chest.”

Caleb links his hands behind the small of Fjord’s back, bringing their hips together, their chests touching so he can feel Fjord’s ribs move with his inhale. “No, if the reward is good and it’s not stupid.” He tilts his head back, chin lifted.

Fjord’s lips curl in a smile. “Sometimes you gotta get a little stupid, though. No?”

“Maybe,” says Caleb, his gaze roving over Fjord’s square jaw, the full curve of his lower lip, the glint in his golden eyes in the bright sunlight streaming through the windows. “Maybe. Okay,” and he kisses Fjord.

Fjord inhales and pulls Caleb close with barely-restrained fervor, one hand curving around the back of his head. Gripping Fjord tight, Caleb uses his body as leverage to angle deeper into the kiss, losing himself in the feel of Fjord’s lips against his. A long-dormant hunger rears its head inside him, and he grips the back of Fjord’s vest.

Fjord slides his hand around to cup Caleb’s face, calluses catching as his thumb brushes over Caleb’s beard. His tusks press into Caleb’s lip as he kisses him again, and Caleb hangs on to the V of his hips. Fjord’s lips part and his tongue nudges against Caleb’s, making Caleb’s gut coil tight with desire.

He’s done with waiting. He’s done with being afraid.

“Fjord,” Caleb gasps, pressing into him, and Fjord groans and kisses at Caleb’s neck, his lips cool on Caleb’s burning skin. “I…”

Fjord nibbles at Caleb’s earlobe and his whole face goes hot, his nerves alighting with sensation. “Yeah?”

Words are hard, too hard. Not worth the time. Caleb yanks Fjord’s shirt out of his pants and flattens his palms up his abs, up to his chest. In case that wasn’t clear enough, Caleb slides his thigh between Fjord’s legs and grinds up against his crotch, where he can feel the hardness building already.

“God,” groans Fjord again, fingers tangling in Caleb’s hair.

A chill runs down Caleb’s spine, and before memories can resurface, he takes Fjord’s hand and pulls it away from his hair. “Not like that,” he manages hoarsely.

“Oh,” says Fjord, wincing. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Caleb kisses him again before he loses the heat, feeling Fjord melt back into him again. Fjord backs up, moving Caleb with him, until they hit the desk. Leaning back, Fjord pulls Caleb against him, the lines of their bodies pressing together, clothes wrinkling uncomfortably in between them. Caleb strips off his coat, letting the fabric drop to the floor.

Cupping Caleb’s face in his hands, Fjord sighs something that might be his name, kissing him again. The desk is a little too tall for Caleb to climb into Fjord’s lap but he does the best he can, pushing Fjord’s vest off his shoulders and yanking on his shirt. Fjord obliges by pulling his shirt off and baring his scarred torso.

The ship rocks under them as Caleb traces the marks on Fjord’s skin, all the pale remnants of slashes and stabs. Some he recognizes. Some he doesn’t. As he traces the outline of the starburst in Fjord’s stomach, Fjord’s fingers fold over his. “You’re thinkin’ somethin’,” says Fjord. “What is it?”

“You have survived a lot,” murmurs Caleb.

“So have you.” Fjord encircles Caleb’s wrist with his hand, pushing back his sleeve to reveal the glowing residuum. Sparks tingle under Caleb’s skin as Fjord brushes over the crystals, then strokes the silvery line of a scar. “I ain’t glad you had to, but I’m glad you did.”

Caleb’s heart catches in his chest under a sudden wave of emotion, and he grips Fjord tight, pulling him down into a kiss, their breath trembling on their lips. “Ich auch,” he whispers. _So am I._

Fjord kisses him hungrily, hands roving over Caleb’s body, Caleb’s shirt bunching and catching. Too impatient with the fabric on his warm skin, Caleb pulls his own shirt off and tosses it aside, leaning back in to catch Fjord’s mouth with his own. The intimacy of their bare torsos pressing together makes Caleb shiver in delight, Fjord’s hand cupping his jaw, and he rolls his hips into Fjord’s against the swelling between his legs. Fjord curses, dropping his head to Caleb’s shoulder. “Cay,” he pants. “I hate – I hate to ask, but you’re good with this, right? You’re not makin’ yourself –”

Sparks snap off Caleb’s residuum and he mouths at Fjord’s neck in a half-kiss, half-bite. “I’m fine,” he growls. “But not if you bring it up.”

“Got it,” manages Fjord, voice strained with lust, and seizes Caleb in a frantic kiss. Sitting farther back on the desk, he grabs Caleb under the haunches and pulls him up with him, maps crinkling as Caleb kneels on them. Now Caleb has to look down to meet Fjord’s eyes, and he kisses him hungrily, grinding into Fjord as his own cock stiffens. Panting, eyes bright, Fjord fumbles at the laces of Caleb’s pants as Caleb presses burning kisses to Fjord’s neck, watching the brown flush spread over his skin.

Fjord’s hand slides into Caleb’s smallclothes, rough palm brushing over tender skin, and Caleb groans, his head pressed to Fjord’s shoulder. With a flick of his wrist and a couple of arcane words, Caleb uses magic to undo Fjord’s pants, then reaches down to stroke his swelling cock. “Fuck,” breathes Fjord, gently tugging Caleb’s dick free. Caleb grinds up against him, his breath hitching as he slides against Fjord, a large bead of precum sliding down Fjord’s penis. He knows Fjord must be warm but everything feels cool to the fire under Caleb’s skin, the smokeless heat that licks at his throat and fills his belly. He kisses Fjord until his lips burn, and Fjord’s hand wraps around the both of them and Caleb keens, rocking up into Fjord’s grasp. He swears he can taste the flames, bitter and delicious as Fjord’s tongue presses into his mouth, and Fjord trembles, thighs shaking on the brink of orgasm. Caleb swallows Fjord’s moans as they rut against each other, gripping each other’s backs, bodies pressed together, and the fire rises higher and higher until it presses into every intimate corner of Caleb, filling him, filling him, filling him, until it spills out of Caleb and he cries out hoarsely, sparks dancing behind his eyelids.

Fjord moans, long and aching, as sticky warmth coats Caleb’s thighs. Panting, Caleb grabs Fjord tight and drops his forehead to Fjord’s sweaty shoulder, their chests rising and falling heavily together. “Evandra’s tits,” swears Fjord wearily. “Caleb…”

“Mm?” Caleb peels himself away so he can see Fjord’s face.

“Nothing, I…” Smiling, Fjord takes Caleb’s chin in his thumb and forefinger and tips him down for a kiss. “I’m glad you’re back.”


	23. Act V, Scene 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit sexual content.

Holding his hand out flat, Fjord presents half an apple to the Beast, who lowers his massive black head and gently lips up the apple. “Atta boy,” murmurs Fjord, scratching the horse’s neck under its thick mane.

“We ready?” says Beau, striding up alongside him, rucksack slung over her shoulder.

Fjord glances around the rest of the group gathered on the dock, counting heads. There’s two missing. “You seen Jester or Caleb?” he asks. “We’re about to head out.”

“Yeah, I think Jester was playing dress-up again – oh, there they are.”

Two figures descend down the gangplank of the _Leviathan_ as Fjord turns. One is Jester, smartly done up in a dark green traveling cloak decorated with embroidered flowers and dangling crystal charms, but Fjord barely spares a glance for her. Because behind her is Caleb, his beard shaved down to a close copper stubble, his loosely combed-back hair long enough to curl over the nape of his neck, and Frumpkin draped over his shoulders like a luxurious fur collar. Caleb’s long black coat, buttoned up to the neck, is close to the one he wore while under Ikithon, but with elaborate silver fastenings down the front, and as he walks Fjord catches a glimpse of red silk lining. Fjord stares, heat rising to his face.

“Well?” chirps Jester, joining the group. “What do you think?”

Fjord thinks if they weren’t out on the docks of Port Damali, he would grab Caleb and kiss him right then and there. As it is, he clears his throat, adjusting his new set of dark leather armor. “Lookin’ sharp, Caleb.”

Caleb smiles slightly, tugging his cuffs over his wrists as he steps onto the dock. “You have Jester to thank for that.”

Making a mental note to buy her something nice, Fjord gathers the Beast’s reins in his hands and starts leading them off the dock and into the city. “All right, let’s go.”

First stop is a livestock auction, where they purchase horses for the rest of the party. Caleb watches with pursed lips as Yasha takes the lead rope of her new draft horse, its hide splashed in black and white. “Frumpkin,” he says, and the marten on his shoulder chitters. “Would you be so kind?”

The marten runs down Caleb’s arm and leaps off as Caleb flicks his wrist. The residuum crystals flare with an orange-purple glow and Frumpkin’s form shifts, growing in midair. Four hooves hit the ground instead of four paws, and Frumpkin the horse snorts, his coat brindled in black and gold and his mane rippling as he arches his neck. “All right,” says Fjord. “That saves us some silver.”

Smiling, Caleb pats Frumpkin on the shoulder. “Wir werden bald sehr schnell gehen, nicht wahr?”

“I’m guessin’ you won’t need a bridle, but we should still get you a saddle and neck rope,” says Fjord, scanning the chaotic auction yard for a livery. “Unless you fancy goin’ bareback.”

Caleb shudders. “A saddle would be appreciated, thank you.”

\--

The Cyrios Gate into the Empire isn’t as foreboding as the Wuyun Gates, considering there isn’t a single checkpoint. Instead, a series of locks control the boats going up and down the river, while two lodges and several wooden gates sprawl across the road, travelers separating into queues for questioning before passing through.

Fjord reins the Beast in on the side of the road, glancing over at Caleb beside him. Eyes narrowed, Caleb assesses the red-tuniced Crownsguard, his fingers tapping on the pommel of his saddle. Behind him, Nott flattens her ears and wrinkles her broad nose, hanging onto the back of Caleb’s jacket. “There are a lot of them,” Caleb mutters.

“And a lot of civilians,” says Caduceus warningly, urging his horse up on Fjord’s other side. “What are you planning to do?”

Looking meaningfully from the all-timber lodges to Caleb, Fjord says, “If we get the people cleared out, can you bring one of those down?”

“Oh, ja,” snorts Caleb. “Easy.” He nods towards the Tyodan River, swollen in its banks from the summer rains. “You should be able to do something with that.”

Fjord grunts, reaching out towards the water with his powers. Fresh water doesn’t respond quite the same way salt does, a little more reluctant, a little harder to keep hold of. But he doesn’t need finesse for what they’re about to do.

If they wanted, they could disguise themselves and sneak into the Empire, no problem. But they’re not here to slip by unnoticed.

They’re here to cause a ruckus.

“Jester,” calls Fjord, beckoning her, and she rides up to join him. “Think you can do somethin’ that’ll move these people out of the way without hurtin’ them too much?”

Nose wrinkled, Jester taps her chin thoughtfully with one gloved hand. “I think so,” she says. “Caduceus?”

He tilts his staff and a large green-black beetle crawls out of the tangled roots at the top, onto the finger Caduceus holds out for it. “I got an idea,” he murmurs.

Turning the Beast’s head, Fjord circles back around to Yasha, Beau, and Molly. “Jester and Caduceus are gonna cause a distraction,” he says. “Then Caleb’ll clear the way. Once he does, ride through as fast as you can and don’t let anyone stop you.”

Yasha smiles grimly, loosening her massive broadsword in its sheath. “Aye aye, captain.”

They follow as Fjord canters back up to the spellcasters, Caleb carefully rolling up his sleeves. The residuum sparkles on his arms like burning embers. “Ready when you are,” says Caduceus.

“Let’s get up to the gates.” Fjord cluck-clucks to the Beast, urging him back into the flow of wagons and people making their way up the road. Many of the travelers give him and his group wary glances and a wide berth. They do make an eye-catching posse.

Evidently the Crownsguard think so too, because a number of them stand alert as Fjord and his crew ride up, the captain striding forward. “Halt!” he calls. “What is your business in the Dwendalian Empire –”

“Now,” says Fjord.

Jester claps her hands and a swarm of what look like glittering spectral hamsters bursts out around her, shrieking and nipping at anyone nearby. Civilians shriek and dart away, a horse rearing in alarm. “Stay back!” roars Caduceus, as a cloud of beetles streams out of his staff, the sound of a thousand metallic wings filling the air as they buzz between the crew and the people on the road. Fjord spares half a glance to make sure people are heading Caduceus’ advice, and then –

Standing in his stirrups, Caleb chants in an arcane tongue and moves his hands apart. A web of fire stretches between his clawed fingers, his hair blowing behind him and his eyes reflecting the orange light. “I have a message!” Caleb calls hoarsely. “Tell Trent Ikithon the Red Dragon has returned.” And he twists his hands, and the fiery strings snap, and a torrent of flame blasts into the closer lodge.

Crownsguard yell, seizing weapons and firing crossbows, while Nott raises both fists and shouts in glee, flames reflected in her eyes. Jester’s hamsters seize the bolts out of the air, ringing Fjord and Caleb in a purple-pink shield. Jabbing his heels into the Beast’s sides, Fjord breaks into a gallop, and the thunder of hooves accompanies him as the others follow. A second blast of flame ignites the other lodge and then Frumpkin sprints forward with Caleb bent low over his neck and Nott clinging to him, Crownsguard rushing to block the road.

Closing his eyes, Fjord reaches deep within himself and calls the river. It answers, and he lifts his arm up and swipes it in front of him, clenching his fist.

A great wave surges over the banks, tall as a building, and sweeps across the road. It bowls over Crownsguard in their heavy armor, wooden posts splintering under the force of the river, and Fjord grins with exhilaration. He twists his outstretched arm and the water swirls, grabbing onto anything still standing and bringing it down. Sweat beads Fjord’s forehead, his muscles trembling with effort, and he sends the water back just as he and his crew gallop through like the devil is on their tail. The Beast leaps over a coughing and soaked Crownsguard, landing with a heavy thump in the mud, and bursts into a renewed run.

On their heels, a wall of flame surges into the air, the heat blistering on Fjord’s back. Letting the water flow back into the river, Fjord glances over his shoulder for a pursuit, but the Crownsguard are all bogged down in mud and fire and destroyed lumber. The dark satisfaction in him is echoed by just the faintest sense of a vast entity rumbling in approval. “Nicely done,” he pants to Caleb.

Sparks still hanging around him, Caleb slows Frumpkin just enough to glance behind him. “I have been wanting to try that spell for a while,” he remarks.

“Yeah?” says Fjord. “It’s a good one.”

“Does it have a name?” asks Nott. “All the really good spells have names.”

A tiny smile curls Caleb’s lips. “Widogast’s Web of Fire,” he says. And Frumpkin snorts, tossing his head, and gallops even faster into the Empire.

\--

The night before they reach Yrossa, they camp in the piney woods to the north of the city, deep enough into the tangled trees that no one will stumble across them or see the glow of their fire from the road. Caduceus passes from tree to tree, laying his hand on their trunks and murmuring to them, and assures Fjord they’ll help shield the crew from unfriendly eyes. Fjord doesn’t quite believe him, but is much more confident in the pitch-black dome Caleb erects around them, just large enough to encase them in a transparent but impermeable shield.

Seated across the campfire from Fjord, Caleb stares into the dancing flames, hunched over with his elbows on his knees. The orange light dances in his eyes, casting flickering shadows on the sharp planes of his face. Fjord chews his lip, the urge to walk around the fire and tilt Caleb’s chin up into a kiss gnawing at him. But the others are around, and Caleb shies away from public displays of affection. Lacing his fingers together, Fjord clears his throat and glances away from Caleb, to where Yasha sharpens her sword with long, scraping strokes of the whetstone. While Beau teaches Caduceus defensive moves with the quarterstaff, Molly lounges on the ground, watching them and snacking on dried fruit. “Move your feet, darling!” he calls at Caduceus, who rolls his eyes, and Molly snickers. Beside him, Jester sketches in her journal, glancing up at the practicing pair.

But Fjord can’t help his gaze drifting back to Caleb, hunger curling in his stomach. His coat is as black as the forest, his hair as orange as the fire, and for a second Fjord absurdly fears that if he takes his eyes off Caleb, he will be swallowed into the shadow and flame. Fjord itches to pull Caleb close, to press his lips to his, to taste Caleb again –

Small claws prick Fjord’s arm and he just about jumps out of his skin. “You’re staring,” says Nott.

“Changebringer, Nott!” swears Fjord, rubbing at his pounding heart. “You damn near gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry,” she says, unrepentant, and sits on the log next to Fjord. Her grey hood is pushed back, her long greasy hair knotted in a ponytail. “Have you noticed how many of us don’t remember things?”

Fjord frowns at her. “What d’you mean?”

“Well, there’s Caleb, obviously,” she says, ticking off on her clawed fingers. “Molly doesn’t remember _anything_ about who he used to be. Yasha has some missing gaps in her time as well. And have you talked to Caduceus lately? He’s kind of vague about anything that happened to him before he met Molly.”

Considering this, Fjord says, “That is odd.”

“Yeah. Jester and Beau, at least, don’t have anything like that…” Nott looks expectantly up at Fjord.

“Nope.” Fjord smiles reassuringly at her. “My time’s pretty much all accounted for, except for a few moments here and there. Drownin’ will do that to a fella.” Curiosity piqued, he asks, “What about you?”

Hesitating, Nott draws her knees up, lacing her hands around them. “You know, I… I think some of mine are starting to fade. Of… before.”

“Before what?” says Fjord, brow wrinkling with concern.

“Oh,” says Nott hastily. “Before nothing. Nothing, it doesn’t matter.” She clears her throat, getting to her feet. “You just need to make sure Caleb gets better. And stronger.”

Fjord’s concern twists deeper. “Not that I won’t, but why?”

“It doesn’t matter,” says Nott, in clear panic, and she scurries over to join Yasha, who glances down at her with a fond little smile before continuing to polish her blade.

Fjord grumbles to himself a little, not liking when his crew keeps secrets from him, and looks back at Caleb. This time Caleb is watching him, his eyes reflecting the firelight, and Fjord’s heart skips a beat.

Caleb raises his eyebrows.

Raising his in return, Fjord jerks his head over at the shadowy trees.

A tiny smile curls Caleb’s lips, and he stands. High in the branches above them, Frumpkin hoots softly, and the tethered horses snort and stamp their feet, tails swishing.

 _Yes,_ thinks Fjord, getting to his feet. Skirting the fire, he crosses through the domed barrier and heads deeper into the trees. As he gets a few yards away from the campsite, Caleb joins him, the orange glow of residuum lighting his way. Stepping in close, Caleb slides a hand over Fjord’s waist and leans up to kiss him.

Fjord sinks into the kiss, wrapping an arm around Caleb to pull him close, thankful Caleb is no longer what felt like literal skin and bones in his arms, even if it’s not by much. Radiating heat even through his long coat and leather gloves, Caleb kisses Fjord slowly and deliberately, as if they’ve got all the time in the world. As if everything couldn’t be over for them in twenty-four hours. Sliding his hand under Caleb’s jaw, Fjord presses his lips to Caleb’s burning mouth, and as his fingers brush the scaly crystals on Caleb’s neck, Caleb shivers. “Listen,” says Fjord, quiet and low. “Whatever happens tomorrow, I need you to know –”

“Shut up,” says Caleb, and kisses him.

This time he kisses Fjord like a drowning man seizing a rope and Fjord gasps, his back hitting a tree as he staggers. Using the ancient pine as a support, Fjord grabs Caleb’s hips and yanks him closer. Caleb tastes like woodsmoke and desperation, a hardening bulge in his pants to match Fjord’s, and he trembles. “Easy, easy,” murmurs Fjord in between kisses, barely knowing what he’s saying. “I’ve got you.”

Caleb keens faintly, pressing up against Fjord, his lips blazing on Fjord’s neck. Breathing hard, Fjord drops his head back against the tree trunk, as Caleb kisses down to his collarbone, leaving a fiery trail in his wake. Through the gaps in the trees, the night sky drips with brilliant stars, each point of light shimmering as Caleb works Fjord’s pants open and slides his hand in. His touch slides over Fjord effortlessly, Fjord’s cock already leaking with desire, and Fjord groans and closes his eyes. With one hand on the tree to brace himself, he slides his other hand down Caleb’s back to grab the little ass Caleb has and knead gently, encouraging Caleb to rock his hips against Fjord’s.

Shaking again, Caleb presses his face to Fjord’s neck as he wraps his hand around Fjord’s cock, and Fjord drops his head to Caleb’s hair and props his leg up so Caleb has something to grind against. “Atta boy, Caleb,” he says, the words falling out of him, and Caleb groans and strokes him faster, Fjord’s pulse throbbing in his cock. “Just like that, sweetheart, _god –_ ”

Caleb’s teeth are sharp on Fjord’s neck as he shakes and sweats, the roll of his hips against Fjord growing more urgent, and Fjord brings his hand up to rub at Caleb’s neck, pressing in lightly on the residuum. Caleb _whines,_ his hand tightening, and Fjord nearly whites out at the sudden pressure. “Cay,” he gasps, stomach muscles clenched and trembling, “you gotta tell me, good or bad –”

“Gut,” gasps Caleb, and thank Evandra Fjord knows enough Zemnian to know that means _good_. Caleb’s hand twists around Fjord’s cock as it moves up and down, his fingers slick with Fjord’s natural lubrication. Breathing rough, Fjord grabs Caleb’s ass again as he kisses Caleb on the neck, the residuum burning hot, and Caleb makes a strangled gasp and shudders in Fjord’s hold.

“Easy, easy, easy,” pants Fjord again, his entire body drawn as tight as a wire about to snap. Caleb strokes him faster and faster, relentless, pulling the wire tighter, and a low moan punches out of Fjord. “Don’t stop, Cay, darlin’, don’t you stop…”

Caleb’s heavy breath is hot on Fjord’s skin and the sharp lines of his body dig into Fjord’s and he twists his hand and squeezes and a column of heat shoots up through Fjord. His hips snap forward and he comes with a yell half-muffled in Caleb’s neck, hot thick liquid spurting out of him. Panting, Fjord leans his head back again, the stars haloed in his tear-blurred eyes.

Slowly, Caleb withdraws his hand, his fingers tingling against Fjord’s over-sensitive skin. His bulge is rock-hard against Fjord’s thigh, his eyes glittering even in the dim light. “God, Cay,” murmurs Fjord, and kisses Caleb again, biting gently on his lower lip. Caleb whines quietly, leaning into Fjord. “It’s okay, I got it…”

Caleb pants rough in his ear as Fjord strokes the flat of his palm against Caleb’s crotch, rubbing at the residuum on his neck with his other hand. Shaking, Caleb cries out, grinding against Fjord’s hand, his fingers digging into Fjord’s sides. “That’s it,” Fjord murmurs hoarsely, “there you go, darlin’, there you are…”

Caleb jerks, biting into Fjord’s shoulder, and wet warmth blooms across the front of his pants. “There you go,” Fjord says again, stroking Caleb’s hair, and kisses his sweaty forehead. Letting out a shuddering sigh, Caleb slumps into Fjord, who slumps against the tree. The night breeze cools the sweat on Fjord’s skin pleasantly, the come drying stickily on his groin less comfortable. “Cay?” he says, giving his wizard a little shake. “You with me?”

Eyes closed, Caleb groans quietly. “Wenn nicht, ist es deine Schuld.”

“What?”

Caleb peels himself away from Fjord with a quiet grumble. “Nothing,” he says, and waves his hand through the air, a trail of orange-pink sparks following it. In a whiff of hot air, Fjord is dry and clean of come, Caleb’s pants spotless. “I guess we should rejoin the others, huh.”

Fjord breaks into a cold sweat as he realizes they were not quiet and absolutely within earshot of the campsite. “That dome of yours don’t keep sound out, do it?” 

Eyes glinting, Caleb smooths down his rumpled coat, a tiny smirk playing on his lips. “No.”

As Fjord pushes his hair back out of his eyes, he sighs. He can picture Beau’s shit-eating grin and Molly’s smug look already. “Figures.”

\--

From the concealment of a small stand of trees, Caleb eyes Yrossa in the distance, Fjord seated close behind him on Frumpkin. At this distance he can just see the city wall bristling with Crownsguard, and a barricade has been erected around the homes and settlements that spilled out beyond the city proper. Sharpened wooden spikes on the top of the barricade angle inwards, and several plumes of smoke curl from within the city into the summer blue sky. Despite it being well into the morning, the city gates are firmly shut. Caleb hisses between his teeth. “That don’t look good,” mutters Fjord.

“No, it does not.” Caleb swats away a buzzing gnat, and Frumpkin stamps irritably, long tail sweeping away flies that immediately land on his haunches again. “Shall we?”

Fjord tightens his arms around Caleb’s waist for a moment. “Yeah.”

With a snap of his fingers, Caleb turns the three of them into ravens. He wheels up into the sky, flapping his wings, and caws hoarsely. Fjord darts below him, a faint green iridescence on his wings in the sunlight, and Caleb caws again.

They ride the air currents towards the city, joining the carrion birds that already circle overhead. Caleb catches the flash of sunlight off metal armor as Crownsguard patrol the streets. Several sections of Yrossa are in disarray, the streets scattered with rubble or in some places barricaded, and the smoke rises from smoldering ruins of buildings in the more ragged quarters of the city. Caleb caws a third time, worried, and starts descending.

Fjord and Frumpkin follow as Caleb circles down into Yrossa, looking for an empty alleyway to land. Finding one, he descends, landing on the cobbles by a pile of garbage. He gives it a few curious pecks, to see if it’s food, before turning back into a human. A second snap of his fingers lifts Fjord’s avian form. Fjord grunts appreciatively at the sight of Frumpkin perching on Caleb’s shoulder, adjusting his armor. “Suits you,” he says. “Very ominous.”

“Yes, well, I don’t intend to look like myself just yet,” murmurs Caleb, and with a flare of residuum changes his face to a nondescript man, his hair ragged and brown and his doughy cheeks patchy with stubble, his black coat hidden behind the illusion of a peasant’s jacket and breeches. “You should not either.”

Fjord grunts again, and swipes a hand in front of his face. A shimmer follows the gesture and his visage becomes that of an older human, graying hair and goatee neatly trimmed, his clothes worn but respectable. “How about this?” he says, his accent that of an upper-class Dwendalian.

Eyeing him speculatively, Caleb says, “That’ll do.” Sidling up to the entrance of the alley, he pokes his head out. The twisting, narrow street is empty, the doors of the houses closed and their windows shuttered. “Let’s go.”

Side by side, he and Fjord step out onto the street, Frumpkin cawing and shuffling on Fjord’s shoulder. “Damn quiet,” mutters Fjord, glancing around warily. “Yrossa was bad last time we were here, but this…”

They reach the end of the street, where it opens out onto a wider thoroughfare. Two Crownsguard stand a couple of blocks down, watching the street warily, but a placard nailed to a shop catches Caleb’s eye. Keeping his head down, he darts across the road.

The broad sign has been firmly hammered to the wall, bearing the same set of instructions in both Zemnian and Common.

_BY ORDER OF LUDINUS DA’LETH, ARCHMAGE OF DOMESTIC PROTECTION_

_ALL RESIDENTS OF YROSSA ARE REQUIRED TO ADHERE TO THE FOLLOWING DECREES IMMEDIATELY AND UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE:_

  1. _NO GATHERINGS OF MORE THAN FIVE INDIVIDUALS ARE PERMITTED._
  2. _NO PUBLIC ACTIVITY AFTER SUNDOWN AND BEFORE SUNRISE IS PERMITTED._
  3. _NO INDIVIDUALS ARE PERMITTED TO CARRY WEAPONS ON THEIR PERSONS._
  4. _PERMISSION TO LEAVE THE CITY IS GRANTED UPON APPLICATION TO THE CAPTAIN OF THE GUARD._



_FAILURE TO ABIDE BY THESE RULES WILL RESULT IN IMPRISONMENT. FURTHER VIOLATIONS WILL RESULT IN ADDITIONAL IMPRISONMENT AND/OR CORPORAL PUNISHMENT._

A sick anger roils inside Bren, the residuum warming painfully, and he clenches his fists. “Gods,” mutters Fjord beside him, and casts a baleful glance at the Crownsguard down the way. “Who’s Ludinus Da’leth?”

“Head of the Cerberus Assembly, unwilling ally to Ikithon,” murmurs Bren. “Come on.”

He leads Fjord down another side street, working farther into the residential neighborhoods. Though the last time Bren was in Yrossa was before he studied at Soltryce, he still remembers its tangle of streets, and he finds a quiet corner in what he recalls as a nice district. The residents he passes along the way are few, all of them keeping to themselves with haggard, drawn expressions. “Fjord,” he says, once they find a secluded corner, and takes his hand. “Squeeze three times if someone is coming, I will not be able to see or hear you.”

Confused, Fjord wraps his fingers around Bren’s. “All right, but why?”

“Frumpkin, mein Freund,” murmurs Bren to the raven on his shoulder, stroking the soft feathers of his neck, and Frumpkin takes a little nibble out of his finger. “Sei meine Augen.”

Frumpkin caws, and as he takes off, Bren shunts his consciousness into his familiar, only the clasp of Fjord’s hand on his grounding him. Through Frumpkin’s eyes, he watches as the raven flies past the boarded-up shops, towards the center of the city. Past the Crownsguard standing guard outside the Grand Burgher’s mansion, the remains of soot and graffiti still visible on its elegant limestone face. Further along the broad street, and into the main square…

Twelve bodies hang from a gallows, hair and clothes stirring slightly in the breeze, flies collecting at their eyes and noses and mouths. All are Zemnian, and male, in the clothes of the working class. One is a boy no more than fourteen years old.

“Scheiße,” mutters Bren, clutching at Fjord, feeling sick again. In this heat, the bodies can’t have been left up for more than a day or two. Frumpkin coasts on a thermal, circling over another one of the marketplaces, then drifting down to a large church of the Dawnfather. Its doors are ajar, lit candles just visible inside –

Fjord squeezes Bren’s hand sharply three times and Bren severs the connection with a gasp, his own sight flooding back to him. Two harried-looking women glance at him as they hurry by, their arms linked. “To the church,” says Bren, swallowing hard. “We can find someone there.”

Avoiding Crownsguard as much as possible without looking like they’re avoiding Crownsguard, Fjord and Bren make their way further into Yrossa. In the city square, the stench of the bodies hanging from the gallows is potent but not yet fetid, the corpses still rigid in death. They were hanged this morning, then. Bren keeps his head down and touches his knuckles to his forehead and lips in the Zemnian gesture of peace for the dead.

Skirting around the square, they find the church, its marble walls slightly grimy, and Frumpkin caws at them from his perch on a gargoyle. “You do the talking,” Bren mutters to Fjord as they enter the church. “You are better at it than I am.”

Nodding, Fjord rubs a thumb over his goatee, scanning the few people in the dim interior. At the far back of the church, past the rows of wooden benches, sunlight shines through the massive stained glass window depicting the Dawnfather, His head replaced by a radiant sun. Bren stares up at the window, remembering the awe he felt as a child when his father brought him here. It feels like somebody else’s memory.

There are only a few people inside the echoing hall, kneeling in silent or muttered prayer. Bren glances at their faces as he passes by, and reads discontent but not resignation. A sullen energy hangs over the room like the drop in pressure before a storm rolls in. _Good_ , thinks Bren. _They haven’t given up._

A cleric in the white and gold robes of Pelor’s order stands near the altar, lighting the many candles in their bronze stands. Bren follows after Fjord as he walks up the cleric with a suitably pious expression. “Excuse me?” Fjord says, in his false accent. “Father?”

The cleric turns around, shaking out the match in his hand. His sandy blonde hair and beard are trimmed short, and what looks like a perpetual flush on his face contrasts with the circles under his eyes. “Yes,” he says, sounding weary. “May I help you?”

“Yes, I – I just, if there’s somewhere private we can talk, I’m afraid I – I need the Dawnfather’s guidance, I don’t know what to do –” says Fjord desperately, making a good show of wringing his hands and looking distressed. “Please –”

“Why, yes, of course,” stammers the cleric. “Here, come with me.” Casting a curious glance at Bren, he leads the two of them into a small room off the side of the chapel, drawing an elaborately-carved wooden screen across the doorway. A small window bearing a stained glass sun looks over four chairs and a small table, the gold bowl on the table holding a set of ivory divination counters. “Please, sit.”

Bren sits down cautiously on one of the chairs, Fjord taking another. Gathering up his long robes, the cleric takes a third seat. “Now, please, tell me what the matter is.”

In an instant, Fjord drops his nervous demeanor, instead leaning forward with a steady gaze. “The matter is that boy hanging from the gallows,” he says, voice low. “Who is he?”

The cleric’s face goes pale and he glances worriedly at the door. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I have a mind to help,” says Fjord. His elbows on his knees and a grave expression on his face, he continues, “I lost my own son when he wasn’t much older. No parent should have to feel that kind of grief. I’d like to speak to the parents and see if I can ease some of their pain.”

Eyes narrowed suspiciously, the cleric says, “Who are you?”

“Just a wandering musician with a golden tongue,” says Fjord, and smiles.

Magic glimmers faintly around Fjord for a brief second, and seems to whisper towards the cleric, who frowns before his expression becomes blank and smooth. “Ah,” says the cleric. “You picked a terrible city to wander into, my bardic friend.”

“I’ve been in worse. Barely.”

“And your companion here?” The cleric glances at Bren.

Keeping his expression and voice as bland as possible, Bren says, “I am his manservant.”

“Well.” Sighing, the cleric adjusts his robes, lines of grief showing on his face. “The young man’s name was Alfric Harmund. His parents are Varden and Leona, they reside in the Candles Ward, on Green Bough Street, if I recall.”

“Thank you,” says Fjord, smiling. “The Dawnfather’s light shines on you, Father.”

The Candle Ward is a neighborhood of timber-frame houses with gabled roofs above rows of shops, their painted wooden signs hanging motionless in the still summer air. Many of the stores are closed, and the few with open fronts show depressingly few wares on their counters.

After asking around a little, Fjord and Bren locate the Harmunds, Frumpkin flying from gable to gable with them. Fjord knocks on their narrow door three times and then steps back, hands clasped behind his back. Standing off to his shoulder, Bren eyes the vine climbing up the front of the house, its purple blooms wilting slightly in the sun. _Clementis_ , thinks Caleb.

The door opens slowly, a woman with graying red hair and hollow eyes standing behind it. “What?” she rasps.

“Ma’am,” says Fjord quietly, “may I speak with you a moment?”

Her expression is as dead as any corpse Bren’s ever seen, and he shivers internally. “About what?” she says.

“Are you Leona Harmund?”

“Who is asking?”

Clearing his throat, Fjord summons a sympathetic smile. “Just a wanderer with a golden tongue who –”

“You stay away from her!” howls a man from inside the house, a second before he barrels through the door and shoves Fjord out into the street. “You stay away from us! All of you! Leave us alone!” Tears streak his face, his hair and clothes in disarray.

“Now, sir,” says Fjord, recovering but keeping a wary distance, “I assure you, I am here to help –”

“ _You can’t help._ ” The words twist out of the man in an anguished cry. “Now go!”

“Sir –”

“Leave us!” screams the man, and swings at Fjord.

Fjord blocks the man’s wild haymaker easily enough, but the man is twice Fjord’s size and he barrels him to the ground. As the two of them wrestle, Fjord grunting as he tries not to hurt the grief-crazed man, Bren takes his chance and darts up to Leona, keenly aware of curious passerby watching them. “ _Listen to me,_ ” he says in Zemnian. “ _I can avenge your son, but I need to know. Was he with the rebellion?_ ”

Leona glances over at her husband struggling in Fjord’s chokehold, and then her eyes flash up to Bren’s with a fire he knows all too well. “ _The man you want is named Lutig Bärenson,_ ” she bites off, shaking. “ _Him and his people got my boy into this madness. Without him, he would still be alive._ ” She grabs the front of Bren’s coat, pulling him closer. “ _You want to avenge him? Start with Lutig._ ”

Her hand passes through the illusion, fingers twisting in Bren’s coat in a way that doesn’t match his outward appearance. Leona’s breath catches, and her pale eyes widen. “ _Who are you?_ ”

“ _Where do I find Lutig_?” asks Bren.

Still shaking, Leona releases Bren, pulling her black shawl closer around herself. “ _His home is in the Soot Ward. Look for the house with the sheaf of wheat and hammer chalked near the foot of the door.”_

Nodding once, Bren steps back. “ _Thank you._ ” And he turns and strides back into the street, where Fjord gently disengages himself from the sobbing Varden. “Let’s go,” Bren says.

Fjord looks up at him with an unspoken question, and Bren nods. “Right,” says Fjord, breathing heavily, and slowly stands. Neither his hair nor his clothes are the least mussed from the fight. “Where next?”

There are too many people watching on the street and from their windows. Their current false faces are useless now. “With me,” says Bren, and snaps his fingers, and he and Fjord become ravens again, Frumpkin cawing as he joins them and they fly up over the houses of Yrossa, towards where the smoke billows thickest.

\--

The smithy basement is dim, with only a little sunlight coming through long narrow windows high in the walls, and a few flickering torches lit. Lutig Bärenson is an imposing man in this darkness, both tall and broad, with a long beard streaked with gray, iron-brown hair that falls to his shoulders, and a hooked nose. “I’ll be honest with you, lads,” he says to Fjord and Bren, in their guises as young Zemnian men. “I’m thankful for your wanting to help, but we’re fighting a losing battle here. The Empire is starving us out. They’ve got us locked in.”

“They do,” agrees Fjord. “But the thing with walls is, they’re just as good for keeping people out as they are in.”

Lutig frowns, sitting up straight with his hands on his knees. “What are you saying?”

“We’re saying,” says Fjord slowly, “that if you drive all the Crownsguard out, you could retake this city for the Zemnians, and make it the heart of the rebellion.”

Lutig’s hearty laugh echoes in the basement. “Boy, I appreciate your ambition, I do,” he says. “But I don’t think that’s possible.”

Exchanging a look with Fjord, Bren clears his throat. “Maybe not for you,” he says. “But it is for us.” And he drops his disguise.

The color drains from Lutig’s face and he goes very still, staring at Bren like a rabbit in a trap. “Ah,” he says, barely audible. “It’s you.”

Raising his eyebrows, Bren says, “And who am I?”

“The, ah.” Lutig stammers, licks his lips, glances towards the door. “The Red Dragon.”

A small part of Bren likes the way the words sound, likes how Lutig looks at him as a thing to be feared, rather than a thing to be used. He inclines his head.

“Are you here to kill us?” asks Lutig huskily.

“No.” Fjord lets his false face and voice go as well. “We’re here to help.”

Lutig laughs again, nervously. “I don’t believe that.” His eyes flick towards the door again, measuring distance.

“If I wanted you dead, you would be already,” says Bren flatly. “If I were working for the Empire, why would I bother to come here in a disguise?”

Frowning, Lutig pauses, long enough for Fjord to add with all the sincerity he can muster, “I promise you, we’re on your side.”

“Hah.” Lustig sighs heavily, rubbing his broad hands over his thighs. “And why would _you –_ ” he looks back to Bren “– want to help us?”

Bren clears his throat, sitting up straight. “My name is Bren Aldric Ermendrud, and I was born in Blumenthal,” he says hoarsely. “Archmage Ikithon took me from my peers as a child and turned me into a weapon. He shaped my mind. He abused my body. He turned me into a weapon.” As Bren speaks, he can feel the fire gathering under his skin. Pushing his sleeves back, he shows the residuum and scars to Lutig, the orange glow of the crystals revealing the fear and awe on Lutig’s face. “I want him to die.”

After a few shaken tries, Lutig manages, “I see. Well. And how do the Volkskämpfer fit into that?”

“We need to draw Ikithon out of Rexxentrum,” explains Fjord, leaning forward conspiratorially. “We’re going to make ourselves known as we drive out the Crownsguard. First Ikithon will send in his Volstrucker, and we’ll take care of them too. Then he’ll come in himself.”

“Just the two of you?” says Lutig, alarmed.

“There are six others of us who we’ll bring in, including a cleric of the Wildmother and a monk of the Cobalt Soul. Remember back after New Dawn when a group of miscreants blew the city gates open? That was us.”

Lutig looks overwhelmed, and Bren doesn’t blame him. “I am not asking your permission,” Bren says. “I am going to do what I must regardless. But it would help our people if we can work together.”

Eyes wide, Lutig nods. “Right,” he says. “Right. So – Bren, was it?”

Bren nods.

“What exactly do you plan to do?”

\--

It takes Caleb multiple trips to fly back to where the rest of the crew and the horses wait, polymorph as many of them at a time as he can, and return to Yrossa in a suitably meandering, bird-like path. By the time he lands the final time and sheds his bird form, black feathers falling to the floor of Lutig’s basement, Fjord can see him shaking in exhaustion. “Hey,” he says, reaching for Caleb. “You did good. C’mere.”

The hard, blank expression Caleb’s been wearing all day drops like a mask, and his shoulders sag as Fjord pulls him close. The residuum at his arms and neck barely glows, depleted. “I am all right,” mumbles Caleb into Fjord’s shoulder. “I just need to rest.”

“Well, you can do that now.” Lutig offered up his basement for the crew to stay in, and they’ve started unrolling their beds on the dirt floor. It feels fairly secure, but all the same… “Before you do, though, can you do that thing with the silver wire?”

Groaning, Caleb peels himself off of Fjord and draws his hands apart. As he does, a fine silver thread appears between them. “Only because you asked so nicely,” he says dryly, and begins to pace the perimeter of the room, muttering under his breath. The silver thread follows behind him, laying itself down neatly on the floor.

With the ward complete, Caleb throws himself down on the floor next to Fjord, nesting up against his side. Caduceus and Molly already lay together in their own corner, having a quiet conversation, while Jester lies flat on her stomach as she draws in her journal. Nott and Beau are both peering into the various boxes and barrels stored in the room, Yasha watching them silently. “You doin’ okay?” murmurs Fjord, an arm around Caleb’s shoulders.

Caleb grunts, staring into nothing. “Ja.”

Hardly a reassuring answer, but Fjord feels he shouldn’t push it. “We’re almost there,” he says instead. “We’re gettin’ to the end.”

“Mm.” Caleb is as warm in Fjord’s arms as a live coal, the gold flecks in his eyes glittering. “That we are.”


	24. Act V, Scene 3

A cold and misty dawn breaks over Yrossa, fog creeping through the winding streets and alleyways. Built in the old fashion, Yrossa is carved into sections by high solid walls, with broad archways leading into each ward. Bren stands before the entrance to the Soot Ward and watches shapes move through the fog as a Crownsguard patrol passing through the main square. On his shoulder, Frumpkin shuffles his wings and caws hoarsely.

Wood creaks behind him as a rebel – Volkskämpfer, the People’s Fighters, they call themselves – climbs up onto the barricade of furniture and wagons erected in the archway. Breathing in the chilly air, Bren stands still as a statue and does not think. Does not think about fire licking up the sides of buildings. Does not think about Crownsguard screaming and falling. Does not think about his people roaring defiance with soot smeared on their faces.

“Caleb _,_ ” hisses Nott, in his mind. “We’re all set. Are you ready?”

Bren clears his throat. “Ja. Go.” He raises his hand high and gestures forward.

With a hissing crackle, a lit flare arcs over the barricade, lighting the mist around it crimson as it hurls over Bren and lands several feet in front of him, sputtering. “Hey!” shouts a Crownsguard, and the shapes in the fog turn, clanking as they run over.

When they see Bren in his long black coat, they slow, uncertainty crossing their faces. “Who is that?” one mutters to another.

There are five guards total. The one in the front with a sergeant’s chevron on his tunic frowns, assessing Bren. “High Mage Ermendrud?” he says hesitantly, with the beginnings of a bow.

Is that his name?

Is that who he is?

Who _is_ he?

Residuum sliding under his skin and the taste of salt on a sea breeze and Ikithon petting his hair and the steadiness in Fjord’s gaze whether his eyes are golden or brown. He stands in Rerik as the town goes up in flames, and he crouches on the deck of the _Tide’s Breath_ as a Concord ship explodes, and he falls to his knees as his parents scream from their burning house. Caleb or Bren or whoever he is clenches his fists, the crystals warming against his skin, his throat tight. The cold air stings against his skin.

“Sir?” says the Crownsguard sergeant.

“ _My name was Bren Alric Ermendrud_ ,” says Caleb in Zemnian. “ _And the Empire is no longer welcome here._ ”

The sergeant frowns uncomprehendingly; he doesn’t even speak the language of the city he was stationed in, and Caleb’s blood burns with scorn. But beside the sergeant, another guard goes pale. “Sarge,” he says, backing up, “we should go –”

Caleb raises his hand again and lets it fall. A roar rises up from behind the barricade and fiery arrows streak overhead, raining down on the Crownsguard. Three collapse with howls, the other two yelling and jumping back. “Sound the alarm!” roars the sergeant as they sprint away.

This time Caleb lifts his hand in front of him and clenches it in a fist, and the cobblestones crack and shift as a massive earthen cat’s paw rises up. It slams down on the other standing Crownsguard, driving him into the ground so forcefully his face hits the stones with a nasty smack and a splatter of blood. The sergeant is already gone in the fog.

The People’s Fighters cheer at their small victory, shouts echoing off the stone walls. Stepping back to the barricade, Caleb shelters himself by an upturned table and goes into Frumpkin’s eyes.

Frumpkin’s talons dig into Caleb’s shoulder briefly as he takes off, drifting silent as a shadow through the city. At the barricade to the Candle Ward, Jester sends glittering unicorn hamsters to gleefully tear Crownsguard to shreds, and at the Flower Ward, Yasha bellows in rage and decapitates another guard with a sweep of her massive sword. Caduceus’ iridescent beetles eat guards alive, leaving nothing but the hollow shells of their armor, and Molly disappears and reappears in a flash of gold to slash and stab with a grin on his face. At the next gate, Beau drives her elbow into a guard’s face while Nott shoots another between the eyes, and at the final ward Fjord shapes mist with a sweep of his arm, creating choking grey ropes that drag Crownsguard down.

Exhaling, Caleb comes back to himself. The Crownsguard need to congregate in the central square before heading into the seven wards, their progress hampered by the barricades, and he can already hear shouting and the clanging of arms and armor. “Nott,” he says, feeling his words find their way to her as surely as if through a copper wire. “Tell the others. I’m going in.”

“You got it!”

Caleb – or is he Bren – strides forward into the central square, the silhouette of the now-empty gallows looming through the fog, Frumpkin perched atop it and cawing. Crownsguard run clanking through the square, ignoring Bren for the more present threat of the rebels as he climbs the steps onto the gallows platform. Turning, he counts the number of guards in the square as they rush towards the gates. At least a garrison’s worth, maybe more.

He raises his arms, and the wall of flames leaps to life, encircling the guards with him at the center.

The Crownsguard caught in the blaze howl as they cook in their armor, others shouting in alarm and skidding to a halt before they reach the flames that lick towards the sky. Beyond the fire, the guards that did get through meet the People’s Fighters in a clash of swords. Bren jerks his hands back towards himself, and the ring of fire constricts, taking more guards with it.

He hears, too late, the sound of a crossbow firing.

The pain that shoots up his side makes him stagger, but it’s the _coldness_ that nearly drops Bren, the sickening chill that hits him like a punch to the gut and the flames go out and he realizes in a moment of pure panic, it was a lead-tipped bolt.

Without thinking, Bren grabs the bolt and yanks it out of his side.

He nearly blacks out from pain but it’s fine, it’s fine, and a Crownsguard lunges at him with his sword upraised and Bren shouts in surprise –

A ferocious roar sounds as Frumpkin the tiger leaps over Caleb’s head and pounces onto the guard. Heart pounding, blood trickling through his fingers as he clutches his side, Caleb lurches back to his feet. Frumpkin rips the guard’s throat out and snarls, crimson staining his striped hide. “Gut Katze,” gasps Caleb, panting.

A horse whinnies and Fjord charges forward on his black steed, a bloody halberd in his hand. “Caleb!” he shouts, and his horse rears, striking a guard in the head with its heavy hooves. The man drops like a stone.

Twisting around, Caleb blindly sends a fireball to where the crossbow bolt came from. A wave of hot air and several screams tell him he hit his target. Wheeling his horse around, Fjord parries a sword strike with the halberd and gallops up to the wooden platform. “Come on!” he shouts, and reaches out to Caleb.

Lunging forward, Caleb grabs Fjord’s hand and swings onto the horse behind Fjord, gasping as pain flares in his side. People’s Fighters surge over the barricades and into the square, grabbing weapons off fallen Crownsguard and roaring as they attack. Here Beau kicks a guard in the solar plexus, there Yasha stabs one in the throat, and there Jester fells a man in a burst of divine light. “Damn,” mutters Caleb, pressing his hand to his side and bringing it away sticky with blood.

“You okay?” demands Fjord as he spurs his horse into a canter, spearing another guard. Frumpkin runs alongside them and pounces on a guard with a deep growl, bringing him to the ground. The mist swirls around them in Fjord’s wake, obscuring them partially.

Grunting, Caleb clutches Fjord around the waist. “I’ll live.” Sparks fly off his residuum as he shoots fire out of his hand at a guard about to swing at Caduceus, his coat sleeves burning. Shouts of pain and the clanging of metal fill the air, and when Caleb exhales sparks tickle the back of his throat. Crownsguard and People’s Fighters fall to the ground, blood staining the stones, but for every guard still standing there are three Fighters. Caleb draws a web of fire that catches two guards like flies, and Fjord stabs another through the chest as they charge forward, and Nott is a barely-visible shadow in the fog as she leaps on a guard and stabs him in the neck…

Time goes away for a little bit as Caleb focuses on keeping himself and Fjord alive, the pain in his side slowly getting stronger. Eventually, he realizes the shouting has stopped and the air around them is gray with smoke instead of fog, and the remaining People’s Fighters stand still, gazing around them in weary disbelief. The corpses on the ground are so thick Fjord’s horse has to carefully pick its way through them, its fetlocks stained crimson with the blood running through the grooves in the cobblestones. “Are there no more?” asks Caleb hoarsely.

“Not for now.” Fjord sounds as tired as Caleb feels, and his shoulders sag. “Got to be more in the city, but I think they realized comin’ in here was a death trap. Probably holed up waitin’ for reinforcements.”

Caleb manages a grunt of acknowledgement, pressing his hand to his side again. It _hurts_ , in steady pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he grits his teeth. Frumpkin pads up alongside them, his jaws and chest stained with gore, his shoulders rising and falling in his feline prowl.

The rebels left start to gather into clumps, congratulating each other with heavy hands on the shoulder, others searching for their dead. An occasional hoarse cry of grief rends the air, but many seem too stunned to do much. _They are not soldiers_ , Caleb thinks. _They are weavers and bookbinders and blacksmiths and farmers. This should never have come to them_.

“Captain Tusktooth!” shouts one man as Fjord and Caleb pass him. “Red Dragon!” Others echo the cry, and Caleb swallows hard, their cheers ringing strangely in his ears.

“I am not their leader,” he mutters to Fjord, his face growing uncomfortably warm. “It is not me they should be cheering.”

“We came here to make a name of ourselves, didn’t we?” says Fjord, slowly circling his horse around.

“The rebellion needs to last once we are gone, and for that it needs a leader.” It already has one, and with a small exhale of relief, Caleb locates Lutig, bloody and limping as he helps another man lift one of their fallen comrades, but very much alive. He is no less relieved to see all the rest of their crew relatively unharmed: Jester and Caduceus aiding the wounded, Beau and Yasha and Molly slumped against each other tiredly, and Nott scavenging crossbow bolts from the bodies. “Stop,” he says to Fjord.

Fjord reins in his horse, frowning back over his shoulder at Caleb. “What’s up?”

Groaning, Caleb dismounts, stumbling as his shaky legs hit the ground, and braces himself against Frumpkin’s warm furry bulk. “Lutig,” Caleb calls hoarsely, walking towards him.

The older man turns, half of his beard and face liberally spattered in blood. “Ja?”

Caleb crouches and picks up an axe from a fallen People’s Fighter, not a battle axe, but one meant for chopping wood, bits of gore clinging to its dull edge. Reaching Lutig, he hands him the axe and nods over at the gallows that still stands in the middle of the square. He can feel the eyes of the rebellion on him, a hundred souls all watching and waiting and holding their breath. “Take it down,” he says hoarsely.

A fire sparks in Lutig’s hollow eyes, his expression growing determined as his fingers close around the handle of the axe. “You don’t want to burn it?”

“It should be you.” Caleb glances over meaningfully at the watching people. “They need it to be you.”

Lutig sets his jaw and nods, walking over to the gallows. Climbing up onto the platform, he glares at the wooden frame, and then takes the axe to one of the scaffolding supports in a mighty swing. A roar rises up from the gathered rebels, and Lutig swings again, and again, tears rolling down his cheeks through the blood. With a great splintering and cracking, one support breaks, and he turns to the other. In a dozen blows, the second support snaps in half, and the whole scaffolding crashes to the ground. The gathered people cheer again, their anger and jubilation filling the square as Lutig spreads his arms wide and turns to face them. “ _Never again!_ ” he roars in Zemnian, and the people scream their defiance. “ _Never again will one of us hang from these beams!”_

A fierce, unfamiliar pride swells in Caleb’s heart as the gathered people shout and stomp and raise their weapons, and he conjures up a great fiery phoenix behind Lutig. Renewed fervor on his face, Lutig points up at the flaming bird. “ _We will rise from the ashes!_ ”

“ _We will rise!_ ” echo the people, and it turns into a chant accompanied by stamping feet and pounding weapons. “ _We will rise! We will rise! We will rise –”_

The wound in Caleb’s side aches so savagely his knees buckle, and he grunts and stumbles into Frumpkin. “Caleb?” calls Fjord, from very far away.

Caleb turns towards him, but the blood drains from his head, and vertigo hits him. “ _Caleb!_ ” shouts Fjord, sounding panicked, and Caleb only has a moment to ponder this before his vision goes black and the ground rushes up to meet him.

\--

“Hey, there you are,” says Caduceus cheerfully, and Caleb groans and opens his aching eyes. The benign smile on Caduceus’ face is belied by the hollows under his eyes and the weary sag of his ears. “Thought we might be having some trouble for a minute there.”

Caleb swears at him in Zemnian, squinting around at the makeshift hospital he seems to be laying in. His side hurts _abominably_ , but he doesn’t feel the fuzzy heat of fever, so that’s something. Still a tiger, Frumpkin lies asleep next to Caleb, his heavy head resting on his massive paws. “Where’s Fjord?” Caleb rasps.

“Taking care of some Crownsguard, I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” Caduceus looks around what Caleb recognizes as an eating hall, the tables and benches shoved out of the way to make room for rows of cots. Women in the grey uniform of doctors pass among the cots, kneeling by those who can still be saved, and white-robed clerics stop by those who cannot.

“A lot of wounded,” remarks Caleb.

Sighing, Caduceus rubs at the back of his neck. His long pink hair is greasy, and blood stains his sleeves. “Yeah.”

Despite his parched throat, Caleb doesn’t ask Caduceus for a drink of water, instead watching as Caduceus watches the hall with slumped shoulders and hands sitting limply in his lap. “You are spent,” says Caleb hoarsely.

After a moment, Caduceus says, “It’s hard. There’s so many who need help. More than I have the strength to aid.”

He sounds so exhausted that pity tugs at Caleb’s heart. “None of us have that strength,” he says. “You are helping those you can.”

The corners of Caduceus’ mouth lift in a smile of gratitude, but before he can respond there’s a mild commotion as the doors to the hall slam open and Fjord strides in, lightly bloodied. He does look impressive, with his black cloak billowing behind him and his armor buckled tight across his broad chest, and if Caleb could he would jump to his feet and grab Fjord in a kiss. As it is, he pushes himself up on his elbows and manages a smile as Fjord heads straight to him. “Hey,” says Caleb.

“Hey,” breathes Fjord, sinking into a crouch, his determined expression softening into one of relief. He touches the backs of his fingers to Caleb’s cheek, thumb smoothing across Caleb’s lower lip. “You’re all right now?”

“It still hurts,” says Caleb dryly. “But I’m alive,” and he nods in thanks to Caduceus, who shrugs ruefully.

“That’s all I need,” murmurs Fjord, and kisses Caleb, his hand sliding around to cup Caleb’s jaw. It’s an awkward angle, amidst the cries of pain and the smell of infection and blood and with a score of others watching, but Caleb doesn’t care. Ease flows through him like a long drink of cool water.

Stretching, Frumpkin bares his big fangs in a yawn, his long pink tongue curling at the end. His paws flex and contract, claws scraping over the wooden floor. “Tiger,” remarks Fjord. “That’s new.”

It is, and so was Frumpkin changing shapes of his own volition during the fight. Caleb reaches over and sinks his fingers into Frumpkin’s thick ruff, giving him a good scritch, and Frumpkin chuffs happily. “You think it’s because of the residuum?” Fjord continues.

“That would be my guess,” says Caduceus. “You said it makes your magic stronger, doesn’t it?”

“Mm-hm.” Caleb continues scratching Frumpkin, the orange crystals showing through his burned-away sleeves. “He is a very special cat.”

\--

Three days after the initial battle, every Crownsguard in Yrossa has either been killed or, if they chose to lay down their arms, stripped of all armor and weapons and driven out of the city on the long walk back to Rexxentrum. “Do you think they’ll send more?” asks Lutig, standing on the city wall with Fjord and watching the straggly line of former guards make its way down the road.

“Of course they will.”

Lutig grunts, arms folded across his chest. Within the city, hammer blows and the shouted orders of those building additional fortifications compete with the bleats and bellows of livestock being herded within the walls. As much food as possible is being stockpiled in anticipation of a siege, with wagons of tribute meant for the Empire coming to Yrossa instead. “If the war in the East is not going well, they may not have the soldiers to spare.”

“Let’s hope it isn’t, then.” As a native of Port Demali and then Darktow, Fjord’s never spared a lot of thought to the Empire’s feud with Xhorhas. It never really made much difference to him. “It’ll take them a while to get here, though.”

“At least a week.”

“The Volstrucker’ll take less time.”

Lutig’s mouth flattens grimly. “I hope your confidence that you can handle them is not misplaced,” he says. “You are not from the Empire. You don’t know the fear that name inspires.”

Leaning forward with his elbows on the ramparts, Fjord says, “I kind of do, considering Caleb – Bren – used to be one.”

“Yes,” says Lutig slowly. “The story he told was… bleak.”

“Yeah.” Fjord sighs heavily. “He really –”

With a high-pitched whine, an object streaks out of the sky and impacts the wall with a shattering of stone.

“Get down!” roars Fjord, falling flat and knocking Lutig to the walkway floor. A second projectile shoots over their heads and crashes through the steeple of a church to Pelor, sending bricks and dust flying. Fjord frantically scans the sky for their attacker just as a dark blur darts across the sky and a third missile hurtles down. This one hits inside the city with a terrible crack and a flash like lightning, and people scream.

Getting to his knees, Lutig pants, “What new sorcery is this?” and looks wildly up above them.

“Volstrucker,” growls Fjord, and scrambles to the nearest stairs down, the falchion appearing in his hand as he runs down to the street level. Reaching the Beast where he left him tethered, Fjord gathers the horse’s reins and leaps onto his back. “Hiya!”

Last Fjord heard, Caleb was back in the Flower Ward, helping collect Yrossans hostile to the Zemnian cause. As Fjord gallops furiously down the street another attacker passes overhead, this time close enough for Fjord to see their ragged black cloak rippling around them and the wooden broom they ride on. They pull out a cannister from under their cloak and hurl it at Fjord, who immediately shoots an eldritch blast out of his palm at it. The cannister explodes in a burst of lightning that zaps the Volstrucker, who shrieks and jerks their broom away.

A second Volstrucker flies overhead and sends a cannister hurtling down too far away for Fjord to blast it. Panicking citizens run past him, fleeing into buildings, and Fjord doesn’t know if that will save them or trap them in tombs of rubble. It doesn’t matter. He has to get to Caleb –

Hooves thudding on the ground, the Beast thunders through the gap in the barricade to the Flower Ward, past houses that still cling to a veneer of wealth and privilege. Fjord turns a corner and thank the gods, there’s Caleb riding towards him on Frumpkin the horse. “Caleb!” Fjord shouts, reining the Beast in so sharply he rears, Fjord grabbing tight with his thighs to stay on.

Caleb gallops up to Fjord with a look in his eyes Fjord’s never seen, simultaneously wild and hard as glass. “Volstrucker,” he gasps.

“I know,” says Fjord. “They’re flyin’. You know a way to knock them out of the air?”

Setting his jaw grimly, Caleb angles Frumpkin up beside the Beast so he can grab onto Fjord and climb onto the horse’s back behind him. “Frumpkin, go,” Caleb orders, and wings burst from Frumpkin’s shoulders as his body shrinks. With a shriek, the newly-formed falcon flaps rapidly upwards, and Caleb grabs Fjord tightly around the waist. “Remember, I can’t see or hear like this,” he says.

“Got it.” Fjord urges the Beast into a canter towards somewhere hopefully more sheltered. The Volstrucker seem to be focusing their fire on the city walls and the already-vulnerable wards. Heart pounding, Fjord watches as Frumpkin gets higher and higher in the sky and the two Volstrucker circle in the distance, dark shapes against the blue sky. Flying brooms and canned lightning, what the hell –

Caleb gasps, clutching Fjord, just as Frumpkin folds his wings and streaks back to earth, narrowly avoiding the bolt of green energy that crackles out from one of the Volstrucker. “Three of them,” gasps Caleb. “And I think I know who.”

“The three that captured you?” says Fjord, already knowing the answer.

“Ja.”

Fjord’s hands tighten on the reins until his knuckles go yellow, and he glares up at the dark shapes on their brooms. “Then they got it comin’ to them.”

With a fierce cry, Frumpkin lands on Caleb’s shoulder, one wing batting Fjord on the head. “We need to bring them down,” growls Caleb.

“You can fly, can’t you?” says Fjord. “If you change into a big eagle. Or you can turn one of us into one –”

“We’d be targets, and I can’t use magic as an animal.” Caleb bites his lower lip and sucks in a hissing breath, snapping eyes fixed on the Volstrucker above. “On the ground we have cover –”

A hail of arrows and crossbow bolts shoots up from Yrossa, but the few that actually hit the Volstrucker bounce harmlessly off their rippling black cloaks. “You got a better option?” demands Fjord.

Pushing hard on Fjord’s shoulders to get himself a little higher, Caleb sends fire streaking towards the closest Volstrucker. But it bursts like a massive orange flower in the air, too far away to do any damage. Caleb growls under his breath, “If only they were _closer_.”

“Well, now they know you’re here, maybe they’ll come down –”

Another cannister hurtles towards them and Fjord shoots it out of the air, lightning crackling to the nearest weathervane. “No, you are right,” says Caleb grimly. “We need to get up in the air.” And he throws himself off the Beast’s back, becoming a massive red-brown eagle with orange eyes and a hooked beak.

Fjord doesn’t have time to think, just swears and leaps onto Caleb, wrapping his arms tight around Caleb’s neck as he slides against silky feathers. Caleb shrieks and takes off, wings flapping mightily as he rushes through the air.

Across the city, another massive bird soars up, this one a cerulean owl – probably Jester – with Yasha clinging to its back. Caleb flies straight towards a masked and hooded Volstrucker, Fjord hanging on as best he can without yanking Caleb’s feathers out. The Volstrucker wheels their broom around and extends a gloved hand that crackles with magic. Fjord fires another blast of green-black energy at the same moment they do, and the two bolts collide in a shower of sparks and a shockwave that blows Fjord’s hair back.

Another Volstrucker sends a spray of dagger-like ice crystals at Jester and Yasha. Jester swivels in the air and Yasha raises her arm in front of her face, but some of the ice still strikes them and Fjord winces sympathetically –

Caleb drops in the air and Fjord yelps, another witch bolt shooting so close over his head he smells burning hair. Focusing on the Volstrucker in front of him, Fjord holds his hand out as he reaches deep within himself. Power yawns inside him, a black gulf that threatens to devour Fjord from the inside out. He takes a deep breath and lets the gulf open directly below the Volstrucker instead.

With a terrible whispering, sucking sound, a black hole opens like ink spilled on the blue parchment of the sky. Ice crystallizes on the ribbony edges of the Volstrucker’s cloak as long tentacles the color of an oil slick whip out of the void and wrap around the Volstrucker’s legs and broom.

She shrieks, struggling to maintain control of her bucking broom, while Fjord stares in awe at the thing he summoned. Controlling water is one thing, but _this –_

He makes a fist and pumps it downwards _._ Writhing and twisting, the tentacles yank the Volstrucker towards the earth, flinging her off her broom. The leather cord tethering her to her broom snaps and she screams, plummeting towards the ground.

Caleb folds his wings and dives after her, the wind rushing past Fjord. Twisting in the air, the Volstrucker grabs the edges of her cloak and snaps her arms out wide, and her fall slows impossibly. She swoops down and lands on the roof of a house, and takes off running.

Eagerly, Fjord dismisses the void only to open it directly in front of the Volstrucker as she leaps from one rooftop to the next. Unable to change direction in midair, she lands right in it, and the tentacles immediately twist around her.

“Ha!” shouts Fjord, his pulse pounding with exhilaration, as Caleb streaks downwards. Right as he pulls up to land, the furiously-struggling Volstrucker shouts words Fjord doesn’t understand, and a lurid rainbow bursts from her outstretched hand.

Orange light hits Fjord square in the chest and he yells as acid sears along his skin. But twin beams of green and red strike Caleb, fire and toxic fumes licking around him, and with a hoarse cry he loses his eagle form and falls.

Fjord has just enough time to angle himself away from Caleb before they both hit the roof, the wind knocking out of Fjord’s lungs as he rolls down the roof, slate tiles slicing at his clothing. Summoning the falchion, he stabs it into the roof, tiles cracking. His slide comes to a sudden halt, his arm nearly yanking out of its socket as he hangs tight to the hilt of his sword.

On the roof peak, Caleb groans and rolls onto his stomach, blood running down the side of his face. Free of the tentacles, the Volstrucker lunges forward, and Fjord eldritch blasts her without thinking. It catches her in the side, knocking her off her feet, and she falls on the other side of the roof.

Using the falchion as leverage, Fjord pulls himself up until he can scramble up and lunge for the gable, cutting his fingers open on the tiles. Hissing, Fjord reaches for Caleb just as he shoots a bolt of fire out of his palm towards the out-of-sight Volstrucker, who yelps as it hits. “You okay?” Fjord pants, grabbing Caleb’s arm.

Hair falling in his face, Caleb yanks free of Fjord and slides down the roof, knocking tiles free as he skids towards the street. Fjord follows after him, the singed Volstrucker sprinting away below them. Then suddenly the roof ends and Fjord freefalls for a split second before he slows in the air, drifting down as light as a feather with Caleb, who traces an arcane symbol through the air. They hit the ground with only a slight thump, and then Fjord _runs._

The Volstrucker had a head start, but she’s not moving very fast, clutching her side and limping, and Fjord catches up to her enough to blast her again. This one hits her in the small of the back and throws her onto her face. Groaning, the Volstrucker drags herself forward, clambering onto her hands and knees, but Fjord gets to her before she can stand and fists a hand in her hair, yanking her head back and pressing the falchion’s blade to her throat.

Her mask and hood have been knocked off, revealing a severe, long-jawed face with dark eyebrows, blood running from her nose and mouth. Her breathing is harsh, her skin sallow, and blue lines like lightning bolts snake up her straining neck. “You got approximately five seconds to explain why I should let you live,” says Fjord, the falchion’s hilt slick with his own blood.

The Volstrucker grins, her teeth stained crimson. “Do you want me to beg?”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind.”

Gasping and clutching his side, Caleb staggers up to them. When he meets the Volstrucker’s gaze, his face hardens back into the blank mask. “Bransomer,” he says flatly.

The Volstrucker’s grin widens. “Ermendrud.”

Frowning over at Caleb, who’s still holding onto his side, Fjord says, “You okay?”

“Ribs,” growls Caleb, still staring at the Volstrucker. Her chest rises and falls with strained breaths, her neck shaking slightly as she tries to lean back from the falchion. The twin yellow crystals in the sword’s guard and pommel stare up at Fjord, and his grip on the sword tightens. It would be so easy to slit her throat, just one quick slide of the sword across her skin…

Two men with the white phoenix of the rebellion freshly stamped on their vests sprint up, the lead manacles they carry rattling. Fjord keeps a firm grip on the Volstrucker as the People’s Fighters chain her wrists and ankles, just in case she tries something funny, but she seems to accept her fate. Between the blood and the dry rasp in her breath, Fjord has a feeling he wounded her pretty bad.

As the Volstrucker is lead away, Fjord steps up to Caleb and puts a hand under his elbow, which Caleb sags into gratefully. “I hurt my side when we fell,” Caleb gasps, staggering forward. “I don’t know if I broke anything, but it _hurts_.”

Caleb’s right arm and shoulder and neck are burned red as well, and Fjord checks himself for damage where the Volstrucker hit him. The top layer of his thick skin has already started to blister and peel away, and Fjord winces as his armor rubs against it. “Right,” sighs Fjord. “Let’s find Caduceus.”

\--

In addition to capturing Bransomer, the People’s Fighters recover two of the flying brooms, though the third is nowhere to be found. They also bring in the bodies of the other two Volstrucker, one brought down by the combined efforts of Jester and Yasha, the other felled by an extremely lucky shot from Nott, though not before he killed Molly and broke Beau’s leg.

Now, the bodies of the Volstrucker lie naked on tables in a hospital room, Molly’s body more carefully laid on a bed in an alcove and covered with a blanket until he revives from the dozen metal bolts that the Volstrucker sent ripping through his torso. Caleb pauses on the threshold, the two bodies on the tables reminding him sickeningly of Astrid and Eodwulf for a moment, the male Volstrucker especially. Then he goes in.

Caduceus looks up from inspecting the Volstrucker. “Hey. How’s your side?”

“Mending, thank you,” murmurs Caleb, still feeling very tender in the left ribs. Both Pierova and the male Volstrucker, Haven, are marked with intricate tattoos: geometric black lines interlace alongside Haven’s bald head and neck, across his shoulders, and down both arms, while a silvery pattern that looks like frost spreads over Pierova’s chest and towards her navel.

Frowning, Caduceus tilts his head and traces curiously down one of the black lines on Haven’s shoulder. “Is this residuum too?”

Caleb clears his throat. “Yes, Ikithon had it crushed into a powder and then tattooed onto them. Apparently the results were not as impressive as he was hoping.”

Grunting, Caduceus says, “Do the tattoos grow too?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t know to what extent they were initially marked.” In Bren’s experience, the three Volstrucker had been covered neck to wrists and toes at all times. But he remembers seeing Haven’s tattoos, the inky black lines close to his face as Haven pinned Bren to the dungeon wall and screamed at him to say his name… “Maybe. I think his – his were less,” Bren manages, pointing at Haven. “It is hard to tell.”

Caduceus eyes him shrewdly. “Have you talked to the other one yet?”

“No. No.” Caleb needs time first. He needs to get his thoughts in order, needs to find himself on stable ground again. “But I will.”

“Let me know when you do. There’s some things I’m very curious about.” His voice curls darkly at the end.

Caleb looks over at where Molly lies, his expression serene in death, the woolen blanket covering the holes in his body, and then back at Caduceus whose long sleeves have blood stains that won’t fully wash out, and whose calm smile is belied by the grimness in his eyes. “All right,” says Caleb hoarsely. “I will.”

\--

Lutig leads Caleb, Fjord, Jester and Caduceus to the oldest and most secure jail in the city, where Bransomer is being kept. “I have to warn you,” he says as they walk through Yrossa, face sunk in grave lines. “She’s in rough shape. Some of my people got a little overenthusiastic and took their frustrations out on her.”

“Can she talk?” says Caleb, alarmed. Frumpkin the raven perches on his shoulder, cocking his head and chattering at the world.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah. They didn’t hurt her _that_ badly. Just tortured her a bit.” Lutig sighs, his big heavy boots stumping along the cobbled road. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, to be honest.”

Caduceus frowns, keeping pace easily with his long legs. “Do about what?”

“Well, I don’t condone that kind of behavior. I can’t. Torture? That makes us no better than the people we’re fighting. But if I punish my own people for hurting an agent of the Empire, I’ll lose credibility. Some Volkskämpfer might even turn to someone more willing to engage in that sort of thing. Either way, the revolution will be weaker.” He sighs heavily again.

Torn between the desire for revenge and knowing that in another turn of events, he would be the one tortured by dissidents, Caleb says nothing. “I had a captain, Vandran,” says Fjord slowly. “We didn’t normally take prisoners, but it happened. The first time someone treated a prisoner the way they shouldn’t, Captain Vandran had them bound to the mast and given five lashes.” Fjord pauses for a moment, his gaze distant. “And nothing like that ever happened again.”

“Yes, but you and your crew respected your captain already, didn’t you?” says Lutig. “It was part of your code to obey him. I am still in a precarious position. There are half a dozen others in this city alone who think they should be in charge, or at the very least disagree greatly with me. We are in a fragile enough position as it is. We cannot afford factions.”

As Fjord and Lutig continue to discuss the issue, Jester steps up beside Caleb. “Are you okay?” she asks, indigo eyes round with concern.

Nonplussed, Caleb says, “Ja, why?”

“This is someone who was very cruel to you, so I know it’s hard to talk to them,” says Jester quietly. “But if you need me, I’m here.” She gives Caleb’s hand a quick squeeze.

He smiles down at her. “You are a long way from giving orders at your father’s den,” he says. “Or being pampered at your mother’s salon.”

Puffing her cheeks, Jester blows out a heavy breath. She’s acquired a shield since the recent battle, as round and silver as the moon, and it shines from where she slung it over her back. “I think I’m changing,” she says thoughtfully. “I don’t feel like the same person I used to be.”

“I think that’s true for all of us,” says Caleb. “Except maybe Caduceus,” and he glances over at the firbolg, who is not paying attention at all.

But Jester doesn’t laugh at the joke. “It makes me wonder who I’ll be next,” she murmurs.

Caleb, formerly Bren, does not have an answer for this.

The Old Jail hunkers low among the buildings around it, its stony edifice blackened with age and dirt. Lutig leads them in, accompanied by the chief warden, and down into a subterranean level of cells, the walls grimy and damp. They stop in front of one of the iron-barred doors, by which three men stand guard, and Lutig nods to Caleb. “She’s in here.”

Slowly, Caleb steps forward and moves aside the iron plate covering the peephole in the door. In the flickering torchlight, he can just make out Bransomer kneeling in the darkness of the cell, arms bound behind her back, with lead shackles holding her wrists to her ankles from behind. Four chains affixed to the walls connect to the manacles on each arm and leg, hanging with just enough tension to limit her movement to about a foot in any direction.

Caleb glances over at Lutig, who nods to the chief warden. She unhooks the ring of keys from her belt and steps forward, unlocking the door. “After you,” she says to Caleb, gesturing him forward.

Taking a deep breath, Bren steps into the prison cell.

Bransomer’s head is down, her straggly, greasy hair in her face. The little of her that Bren can see looks haggard and pale, dark blood smeared on her cheek, and the chamber is thick with a human stench. Slowly, Bren sits on the cell floor directly in front of her but a safe distance away, aware of both Jester and Caduceus entering behind him. Bransomer does not look up at him, but her chest rises and falls.

Bren swallows hard, his saliva thick in his throat. Faint numbness tingles in his fingertips and he clenches his hands in his lap, reining the panic in tight. Feeling the hard, cold stones underneath him. Smelling the fetid air. Watching the torchlight glint off Bransomer’s chains. “ _I’m curious_ ,” Bren says, in Zemnian. “ _You’ve done a lot for the Assembly. I know that you’ve killed many enemies of the Empire, of the throne. I am very curious to know how it would affect you if you knew that some of those you robbed of their breath were innocent, completely innocent. As loyal as you. What would that do to you?_ ”

Bransomer looks up slightly, one eye glittering at Bren through the slit in her hair. “ _We both trained under the same man,_ ” she rasps. “ _You know the answer to that. There are things bigger than innocence._ ”

“ _It doesn’t haunt you at all to know that some of the deeds you’ve committed were predicated on lies?_ ”

“ _I had my heart beaten out of me a long time ago,_ ” and her teeth gleam in the darkness of the cell. “ _Now it’s about guiding history. It always has been._ ”

A nauseous blend of horror and pity curls in Bren’s stomach and he inhales slowly, willing his expression not to break, not to give her anything. “ _Was it guiding history when you shoved a potion down my throat?_ ” he manages, as hoarse as her. _“Or when you held me down so I could be stripped naked_?”

Bransomer doesn’t say anything; her harsh breathing and the sound of water dripping echo in the cell.

Sighing, Bren says, “ _I don’t know how my brothers and sisters could stomach wearing that mantle of loyalty, knowing that it was woven so thoroughly from sin, and I am very sorry for you._ ” Or rather, Caleb is sorry for her. Bren is not.

With a clinking of chains, Bransomer raises her head. “ _Good men don’t conquer,_ ” she says, the visible half of her face bruised and bloodstained but alight with a manic gleam. “ _They die and are forgotten. I’ll die and be forgotten, but at least I know some of my deeds will have changed the course of history.”_

 _“You’ve certainly learned your lessons by rote,_ ” says Bren, no longer bothering to hide his disgust.

Bransomer laughs. “ _You still have a few to learn too. I’m sure he’ll find you._ ”

Shrugging slightly, Bren thinks, _That is the plan._

“ _He’ll be happy to finish what he couldn’t,”_ continues Bransomer, with malice. “ _He doesn’t like it when people don’t do as he says.”_

“ _Oh, I know_ ,” says Bren, dry as sand. “ _I’m sure it galls him very much._ ”

A wicked grin splits Bransomer’s face. “ _He’ll eat you alive_ ,” she whispers, leaning forward. “ _I just wish I was there to watch._ ”

Bren holds her eyes in the darkness of the cell for a long moment, watching the reflected flames from the torch flicker in her pupils. Then he has to laugh at himself a little, sweeping his hair back from his forehead. Frowning, Bransomer cocks her head. “ _What?_ ”

“ _A foolish hope of mine,_ ” says Bren. “ _I thought maybe if I could talk plainly with you and see one inch of change, then I wouldn’t believe we’re all damned._ ”

Bransomer smiles again. “ _No. I hope this lesson has been very useful._ ”

“ _It has._ ” Bren clears his throat, getting to his feet. “ _You’ve made what I have to do very plain._ ” Bransomer’s head follows him as he heads back towards the door, both Jester and Caduceus watching him warily, and she leans against the chains a bit, making them rattle. The memory of her pushing him into Ikithon’s carpet, sending lightning volting through his body, halts Bren, and he turns to her. “ _You were never his favorite, you know_ ,” he says coolly. “ _It was never going to be you._ ”

Fury flashes across Bransomer’s face and in a whip of motion, one of the chains goes slack and her arm arcs towards Bren. He instinctively gestures a counterspell, which does nothing against the pointed shard of rock she thrusts into his clavicle. Bren chokes and staggers, blood spraying out of him, and slaps Bransomer across the face. “Caduceus!” yells Jester, leaping forward, and bashes Bransomer upside the head with her shield.

Bransomer flings back against the cell wall, and Caduceus grabs Caleb, one big hand pressed to the gushing wound in his neck. Snarling, Bransomer lunges again, but Jester pushes her back with her shield, the chains tightening. All three guards rush in, crossbows raised, and fill Bransomer’s chest with bolts.

Hot on their heels, Fjord goes to Caleb, eyes widening at the blood. “I got it, I got it,” mutters Caduceus, and the soothing cool of his healing spell washes over Caleb’s neck. The hot flow of blood eases, the throbbing pain lessening.

“Cay,” says Fjord, taking Caleb by the arms. “You okay?”

Caleb shrugs, glancing over at Bransomer. The bolts pin her to the wall but she’s still alive, struggling for breath with blood dripping from her mouth. “I’ve been worse,” he rasps, feeling at his neck. Under the slick blood, the wound is only half-closed and still stinging. “She stabbed me.”

“Let me see,” says Fjord, his pupils wide to accommodate for the poor lighting, and gently tilts Caleb’s head back. When he sees the puncture, he hisses.

“Here, let me help,” and Jester steps forward to complete curing the wound. Once satisfied Caleb is okay, Fjord straightens and turns towards Bransomer, dark fury collecting on his face. He raises one gloved hand and Bransomer’s body moves with it, arching and straining against the bolts. She chokes, shaking, her eyes wide, and Fjord looks to Caleb.

Bren walks up to Bransomer and stares into her eyes from six inches away. They are dark with fear. He holds his hand up and clenches his fist.

Behind him, Fjord fists his hand and twists it in the air, and Bransomer’s torso crushes inwards, the chains going taut and metal creaking as some of the chains pull and break. Then Fjord lets go and she falls limp, slumping to the floor as the bolts no longer support her weight.

Very aware of Jester watching him, Bren clears his throat and wipes his expression blank. “Sorry, Caduceus,” he says. “I know you wanted to talk to her.”

“Oh, that’s not a problem,” says Caduceus airily, rolling up his sleeves, and the guards look more than a little discomforted. “I just need her body and ten minutes and I’m good to go.”


	25. Act V, Scene 4

“Okay, how about this,” says Jester, holding all her fingers up, then ticking down as she speaks. “‘Hello Mr. Icky-thong, this is Jester, a _very_ good friend of Caleb’s–’”

“Should it be ‘Caleb’?” Beau interrupts. “He knows him as Bren.”

Frumpkin draped around his shoulders like a furry scarf, his little snuffling nose in Caleb’s ear, Caleb mutters, “Either works.”

“‘Hello, Mr. Icky-thong,’” restarts Jester. “‘This is Jester, a _very_ good friend of Bren’s, who says that if you want to talk to him, you need to come out here –’”

“Too long,” says Fjord, his booted feet propped up on the table. Despite his casual posture, the way he fiddles with his little paring knife betrays his tension. “How about this? ‘This is a friend of Caleb’s. Come and meet him in the woods to the east of Yrossa, right before the road leaves the forest.’ There. Plain and simple.”

Beau frowns at him. “He’ll know it’s a trap,” she says. “It’s obvious.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Bren picks at his fingernails, the pendant hiding him from scrying hanging heavy around his throat. “He’ll come anyway.”

\--

Underneath the dripping trees, Caleb stands and watches the road to Yrossa, unmoving. Perched on a branch above him, Frumpkin hoots softly, his keen eyes scanning the rain-washed forest. “So,” says Caleb. “What did you ask the Volstrucker about?”

Standing beside him, Caduceus sighs, long and heavy. “I wanted to know about her experience with the residuum, to see if it would shed any additional light on the problem. But she wasn’t very helpful.”

“You are very interested in the residuum,” remarks Caleb.

“Yeah, I… it’s strange.” Clearing his throat, Caduceus shifts, damp forest mulch squelching under him. “I think I had a dream about it. Or maybe a vision.”

Caleb frowns. “From your deity?”

“Maybe. Not sure who else.” Caduceus looks at Caleb gravely and says, “My home is dying.”

Caleb isn’t really sure what to say.

“Or at least, I think it is,” continues Caduceus. “There’s a lot of time that’s missing for me. A lot of things that got scrambled. But I remember the trees, and the land, gradually growing sick. And I think… I think I’m supposed to use the residuum to help.”

“How?”

Looking troubled, Caduceus says, “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure it out.”

Cold droplets run off the leaves onto Caleb’s head and shoulders, and he pulls his black coat tighter around himself. “I am sorry I could not be of more help,” he says. “And that I provoked the Volstrucker to attack.”

“Oh, don’t apologize for that,” says Caduceus easily. “I’m proud of you. It was very petty.”

Caleb laughs slightly, surprised. “That’s good?”

“For you.” Caduceus smiles at Caleb.

Before Caleb can ask what that means, Jester’s voice enters his head. “Crownsguard sighted,” she says breathlessly. “At least three garrisons. They’ll reach the first checkpoint in half an hour.”

“Understood, thank you,” says Caleb, and rolls up his sleeves.

The road from Rexxentrum to Yrossa passes through miles of the deep dark Geburtout Forest, only wide enough for Crownsguard to march six abreast, stretching their ranks out and preventing them from assembling in defensive formations. Lutig had decided it was better to strike them now, when they’re at a disadvantage, then wait for them to attack Yrossa. No one wins a war from being besieged.

Once the rearguard passes the first checkpoint, trees will be felled behind them, cutting off their retreat. Same thing in the front, trapping the garrisons. Then the People’s Fighters can attack from either side of the road, using the trees as cover and whittling down the Crownsguard.

Of course, they have some other advantages on their side as well.

“They’re on their way,” says Caleb to the four dozen or so Fighters assembled with him and Caduceus, and a nervous energy ripples through their ranks. “Get ready.”

Every weapon is checked, every arrow counted, every piece of armor buckled tight. Two pots of black and white pigment are passed around, and Caleb accepts them when they come to him, dipping two fingers in and smearing paint across his cheeks and forehead. His residuum crackles and burns, a wild energy building inside him, while the silver rain drips through the leaves.

They hear the Crownsguard before they see them, thousands of heavy boots marching along the muddy road. Caleb is conscious of every breath traveling in and out of him, his heartbeats echoing in his chest.

Fjord is on the other side of the road, invisible among the shadows of the trees.

The boots draw closer and closer and closer.

Each inhale quivers through Caleb.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

The endless rows of the Crownsguard march by, flanked here and there by mounted captains. A faint cry rises in the distance; those at the end are already being picked off. Caleb holds his breath, sparks trembling at his fingertips.

The closest ranks are only a few yards away from him, close enough he can see the stubble on the men’s cheeks and the set expression in their eyes.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

With a tremendous crash, two great beech trees fall across the road, cutting off the Crownsguard so closely that the frontmost men trip over each other and fall, horses squealing and rearing as their riders draw the reins short. The People’s Fighters roar, rushing out of the woods, and Caduceus stretches his staff out as a humming swarm of beetles fills the air. Stepping up to the edge of the woods, Caleb – or is it Bren – breathes in deep, spreads his arms wide, and lets the fire flow through his veins.

Pitch poured in grooves in the road bursts into flame, segmenting the Crownsguard and igniting those unlucky enough to be standing in the way. On the other side of the fiery wall, Fjord charges out of the trees and swings the falchion, water and blood spraying as he slashes a guard upside the chest.

As Frumpkin lands on his shoulder, Caleb raises earthen hands out of the muddy road to seize Crownsguard by the ankles and drag them into the muck. Caduceus lunges forward, iridescent beetles swarming around him, and further down the road Yasha charges forward with an enraged yell. Molly fights at her side, streaked with blood, and a burst of holy light signals Jester on the attack, and surely Beau is fighting out there as well and some of the crossbow bolts streaking through the air must be Nott’s –

A Crownsguard arcs his sword towards Caleb, who blocks it with an arcane shield. With his other hand Caleb blasts fire into the man’s face and he screams, falling. Another guard raises a spear at Caduceus’ back and Caleb whirls, striking him in the spine with three piercing magic bolts. The guard falls before Caduceus can even turn.

Bloody mud churns under the combatants’ feet, shouts and screams and the clanging of weapons filling the air. Caleb pants and wheels around, wet hair falling in his face, and arcs fire around himself to sear a Crownsguard, while Frumpkin roars into tiger form and takes down another. The setting sun pierces through the rain clouds, red light glinting off the bronze helmets and shields of the Crownsguard, as the burning pitch hisses and crackles. As much as he can, Caleb tries to keep out of the melee fighting, but in the chaos it’s easy to lose track –

An axe swings towards Caleb and he ducks, but his foot slips in the thick mud and he falls. Snarling, Frumpkin leaps over him and tears the throat out of the Crownsguard. Thick mud clings to Caleb as he scrambles to get his feet under him, and a guard lunges towards him with his spear raised –

With a cry, Fjord leaps over the fire and slices the Crownsguard’s head off, kicking the decapitated body into the mud. “You okay?” he pants, holding a hand out to Caleb, black and white paint marking his face.

Grabbing his hand, Caleb lets Fjord pull him up, turning to stand back-to-back with Fjord as Crownsguard rush them. “Never better.” And he claps his hands together and spreads them apart, a web of fire stretching between his clawed fingers.

A Crownsguard swings at him and Caleb uses the web to ensnare the blade and yank it away, then whips out fiery threads to choke and down the guard. Fjord’s back presses against his and Caleb leans into him as he blocks another blow, kills another man, draw the pattern wider and rings them in flames. Behind him a man dies with a choking gurgle, Fjord’s breathing harsh and fast. He steps back and Caleb steps forward with him, the two of them moving in sync as they carve a circle of death around them, bodies piling up in the mud.

A horse whinnies shrilly and Caleb whips his head around as a slight rider on a dark horse races past, kicking up mud. “Astrid!” he shouts unthinkingly, but she vanishes into the battle, heading towards Yrossa.

“Shit,” growls Fjord. “Bet she’s up to no good –”

Momentarily clear of enemies, Caleb turns to Fjord. “Let me handle her,” he pants, fire crackling around him.

Searching Caleb’s face intently, Fjord nods. “Go,” he says, and grabs Caleb’s face in his hands and pulls him in for a fierce kiss. Caleb leans in and presses his lips desperately to Fjord’s, tasting blood, before breaking away with a gasp.

Frumpkin races to Caleb’s side, jaws dripping with gore. “Sei mein Ross, mein Freund,” pants Caleb, and Frumpkin becomes the brindled horse again, whinnying as Caleb climbs onto his back. No sooner does Caleb find his seat and fist his hands in Frumpkin’s long black mane than Frumpkin bursts into a gallop, weaving through the battle. Hunched low over Frumpkin’s back, Caleb clings on and tries frantically to find Astrid among the mayhem, mud splattering his legs and rain drops striking his face. Then suddenly they come upon the massive logs blocking the road, and Frumpkin bunches underneath Caleb and _leaps_ , and hits the ground on the other side with a pounding of hooves.

Astrid races ahead of them, nearly vanishing into the twilight, and Caleb yells encouragement to Frumpkin to run faster. Tossing his head, Frumpkin snorts, and the _clippety-clippety-clip_ of his hooves doubles in speed.

While Astrid has a head start, Frumpkin is a very special cat and a very special horse, and soon he begins to gain on her mount. “Astrid!” shouts Caleb when they’re close, and as she glances back at him the last rays of the setting sun flash on her green eyes. “Stop!”

She digs her heels into her horse’s sides and the poor beast runs faster, sweat lathering its brown-black hide. One hand knotted in Frumpkin’s mane, Caleb reaches out with the other, his residuum pulsing. The mud of the road rises up in a giant cat’s paw and slams on the heels of Astrid’s horse. It tumbles to the ground, flinging Astrid off its back, and Frumpkin gallops up to them before skidding to a halt in the mud. “Bren!” shouts Astrid hoarsely, climbing to her feet, long black coat half-covered in mud. “What are you doing?”

“Did Ikithon send you to bring me back?” demands Caleb, dismounting and striding over to her. The trees rise up dark on either side of them, the rain lightening to a mist. “Does he think I will listen to you?”

“He sent me to kill every high-ranking Volkskämpfer in Yrossa,” she pants, a green glow lighting around her upraised hands. “And then if Lutig didn’t die in battle, come back here and finish the job.” Fumes rise in the air, sulfuric, and Caleb coughs and summons fire to burn away the vapors in a burst around him. Astrid jumps back, watching him warily. “I don’t want to fight you, Bren.”

 _She was never cruel to me_ , Bren thinks. _She never used me_. “I don’t want to fight you, either.”

“Then let me _go._ ” She glances over at her horse which struggles to its feet, seemingly uninjured.

The flames around Bren burn brighter. “I can’t do that, either.”

“Why? For _them_?” and Astrid points back where the battle rages in the gathering gloom, distress and contempt etching her face. “For a bunch of peasants using you for your fire? They’re doomed, Bren! The Empire will grind them into dust! At least with me, you have a chance of survival –”

“They’re not using me,” growls Bren, advancing on Astrid, and she takes an instinctive step back but jerks her chin up haughtily. “Ikithon was using me and he’s using you, too, can’t you see that –”

Astrid laughs, brittle as glass. “I can’t see, remember?”

“ _Astrid_.” Bren closes the distance between them, taking her gaunt face in his hands. Her skin stings to his touch, and each of her breaths tremble, her lips pressed thin together. “Look at what we’ve done to our people,” he begs her, voice low and intent. “This past year, everything we’ve done –”

“What’s done is done,” hisses Astrid. “There’s no going back.”

“No, but there is going forward.” Her hand seizes the front of his coat, pulling him closer, and Bren needs her to understand – “It’s too late for Eodwulf, but it’s not too late for me, and it’s not too late for you. Astrid, _please_. We can make things right. For. Our. People.”

“Are you going to kill Ikithon?” Astrid demands.

Bren takes a deep breath, embers flaring in his stomach, and promises, “Yes.”

Tears gleam in her emerald eyes. “Damn you, Bren,” whispers Astrid, furious. “Just when I thought I had finally left you behind, when I had locked that part of my heart away, you came back –”

“I didn’t want to,” snarls Bren.

“I know,” says Astrid. “But damn you all the same,” and she kisses him.

Her lips are bitter as ash and they burn against Bren’s, acid rather than flames, and Bren lets her grip him tight for a moment before stepping back and breaking their last kiss. “You have until dawn,” says Astrid, panting. “If Ikithon isn’t dead by then, then I have my duty to fulfill.”

Swallowing hard, Bren says, “And if he is?”

An uncanny light shines in her eyes. “Then we’ll see.”

\--

When Caleb returns to the battlefield on Frumpkin’s back, the fighting is all but over, the People’s Fighters closing in on the last few pockets of Crownsguard. Frumpkin picks his way among the corpses, ravens already swooping down to feast on the dead and nearly-dead, and the stench of blood hangs heavy in the air. Caleb finds Yasha, who looks exhausted, and Jester, who looks nauseous. “Everything all right?” he asks hoarsely.

“Fine,” whispers Jester, her eyes on a beheaded corpse. “It’s just a lot of dead people.”

Yasha’s lips twitch sadly and she puts a hand on Jester’s shoulder. “Come on,” she says quietly. “There are people who probably need healing.”

Caleb rides on, thighs aching and bruised from the bareback gallop and his heart hammering as he searches the survivors for Fjord. Night has fallen and black shapes move in front of torches, gathering the dead, separating friend from foe, and administering aid where possible and mercy where not. He passes Beau, who gives him a weary nod as she unwinds the bloody wraps from her fists, and Nott, whose ears perk up as he waves to her. And he passes Caduceus, who gently lifts Molly’s torn body, his head lolling back against Caduceus’ shoulder. Further past them, Lutig lays a heavy hand on the shoulder of a grieving man, and then –

“Fjord!” gasps Caleb, spotting his broad shoulders and dark head, and spurs Frumpkin forward as Fjord turns around towards him. They reach each other halfway and Caleb jumps off Frumpkin, stumbling the landing on sore legs, but Fjord grabs and steadies him.

“What happened?” Fjord demands.

“I, uh. I may have convinced Astrid to join our side. Not sure. Depends on whether we kill Ikithon,” says Caleb, and pats Fjord clumsily on the chest. “She’s gone now.”

Fjord frowns slightly. “Of course we’ll kill him.”

“I know, I know.” Caleb reaches up and brushes dried blood off Fjord’s cheek with his thumb, the remnants of the war paint smeared on his skin. “I am glad you’re all right.”

Fjord’s shoulders slump with relief, and he sighs, “Me too,” and kisses Caleb.

“Hello, Bren,” says Trent Ikithon in Caleb’s head, calm and composed. “I am waiting at the appointed place. Where are you?”

Bren freezes, the air gone from his lungs and a chill seeping into his bones. “On my way,” he manages, distantly aware of Fjord staring at him.

“Good,” says Ikithon pleasantly. “Do come alone. I would hate for things to get… unpleasant.”

Swallowing hard, Bren breathes in through his nose and listens to his pounding heart. “Caleb?” says Fjord. “Was – who was that?”

He’d forgotten what Ikithon sounded like, forgotten the way his voice weasels into every nook and cranny of his brain. “Ikithon,” forces out Bren, his fingers shaking. “He wants me to meet him.”

Understanding settles over Fjord’s face, dark anger glinting in his eyes. “Where?”

“Where we said to meet.” Bren – Caleb – clears his throat, looking around for Frumpkin. Nickering, his familiar walks up and pushes his nose into Caleb’s shoulder, warm and heavy. “We should go.”

“Cay.” Fjord’s eyes dance golden in the torchlight as he looks Caleb over intently. “You sure you’re all right to do this? I mean it, you want me to go in there and take his damn head off, I will.”

Managing a smile, Caleb says, “I know. And I am not all right. But I need to do this.”

“All right.” Fjord nods, exhaling heavily. “Then let’s go.”

Fjord retrieves the Beast and they ride down the road together, leaving behind the battlefield until the darkness and stillness of the forest envelops them, the only light the moon and the only sounds the snorting and stamping of their horses and the rustling of leather harnesses, and the occasional hoot of an owl. Fjord doesn’t say anything, for which Caleb is obscurely grateful. He doesn’t know what he could say back.

He doesn’t know what he’ll say to Ikithon. Scream at him? Fling accusations in his face? Or would it be cleaner and easier to kill him before he gets a word in? Not listen to his poisoned tongue a second longer than he has to? Does Bren want an apology, or does Caleb want revenge?

Does he want both?

After a while – Caleb loses track deliberately, not wanting to count the minutes down to seeing Ikithon again, but the moon has noticeably moved in the sky so some time has passed – they come to the edge of the forest, the road ahead of them snaking pale across the Zemni Fields, gently rippling wheat fields on either side. Asking Frumpkin to stop, Caleb searches the forest around them apprehensively, but sees no sign of Ikithon. “There,” says Fjord, pointing. “There’s a light in the trees.”

Caleb squints in the direction he’s indicating. “I don’t see it.”

In the darkness, he can just make out Fjord smiling. “I do.”

Throat tight, Caleb follows Fjord into the woods, branches snapping under their horse’s hooves. Soon Caleb can see the light too, a warm glow like candles or lamplight. Then they emerge from the trees into a small clearing, the kind that ought to be thick with grass and wildflowers and foliage for deer to graze, but instead seems to be shorn down to a trim lawn, the edges perfectly neat. And in the center of the clearing, seated at a table with his silvery robes arranged carefully around him, is Trent Ikithon.

Bren stops short, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. It’s not just any table and chairs Ikithon has brought out to the forest. It’s the exact same ones from his office, the table Bren sat at every morning while Ikithon pried his heart and mind out of him piece by excruciating piece. It’s even the same lamp on the table. And the same porcelain and silver dishes, and the same fucking teapot.

“Hey,” whispers Fjord, sounding fuzzy. “Caleb. Breathe.”

Caleb forces himself to exhale and then inhale, Frumpkin snorting softly underneath him. If Ikithon notices their presence, he makes no sign, instead calmly sipping at his tea. “Fjord,” he breathes. “Promise me something.”

“Anything,” says Fjord immediately.

“Whatever happens, don’t let me leave with Ikithon. Even if you have to kill me.” He holds Fjord’s gaze, trying to show him just how much he means this. “Do not let me go with him.”

Fjord lets out a long, slow breath. “I promise,” he says quietly, and Caleb knows he means it. The knot in his chest loosens slightly. “Ready?”

Before he can think twice, Caleb nods. Clucking to the Beast, Fjord rides out into the clearing, and Caleb follows him. “Ah,” says Ikithon, looking up as they approach. “Bren. Please join me.”

Halting Frumpkin, Caleb slowly dismounts, the aches and bruises of battle asserting themselves. Fjord follows after him, looping the Beast’s reins over Frumpkin’s neck and walking alongside Caleb as they approach the table. There’s only one other chair opposite Ikithon. “My apologies,” says Ikithon, not sounding apologetic at all. “I didn’t realize you would be bringing company, Bren.”

“That’s all right,” says Fjord easily, adjusting his cuffs. “I can stand.”

Ikithon shoots him a look of pure malice that makes Bren’s stomach curl uneasily. Now that they’re closer, he can see the jaundiced tint to Ikithon’s skin, the new way his mouth pinches and the skin under his eyes sags. The table is set with a full tea service, incongruous in the middle of the forest: teapot, cream, sugar, a small plate of shortbread biscuits, another plate of sliced white bread, and a little dish of yellow butter. Bren steps up to the chair but doesn’t sit, his stomach churning. “Please,” says Ikithon again, smiling a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “Sit.”

Fjord moves beside Caleb, tension simmering off of him. “All right,” says Bren hoarsely, and lowers himself in the chair, waiting for manacles to spring into existence and bind him.

Nothing happens.

“Mind if I help myself?” asks Fjord brusquely, and reaches over the table for the biscuits, his sleeve nearly dipping in Ikithon’s cup of tea. Ikithon glares at him as Fjord grabs a handful, shaking crumbs off, and then steps back. “Thanks,” continues Fjord, determinedly cheery. “It’s hard work killin’ Crownsguard, I’m starvin’.”

“Yes,” says Ikithon, with delicate disgust. “Well. Speaking of,” and he gestures towards Bren, magic dusting off his fingers. The cantrip flakes away all the blood and mud off Caleb, leaving him clean – and removes the war paint as well. “There,” says Ikithon, satisfied, as Bren shivers. “Now we can have a conversation.”

“I don’t want a conversation,” rasps Caleb reflexively.

Ikithon raises an eyebrow. “No?” he says, and sips his tea. “Then why are you here?”

“I…” Bren stares down at the empty cup and saucer in front of him, his throat constricted. Panic fuzzes his thoughts. Words are difficult.

“Was it for revenge?”

Caleb raises his head slowly, looking into Ikithon’s glacial eyes. “Why, do you think, would I want revenge?”

“Oh, well…” Ikithon shrugs, taking another long drink from his cup, his long fingers pincering the flowered porcelain. “You have been on a path of destruction lately, and I assumed that would turn onto your old mentor at some point.”

“I have been _fighting_ ,” Bren snarls, Fjord standing silent at his shoulder. “Fighting to protect my people, who you turned me into a weapon against –”

Ikithon scoffs lightly. “Your people? Bren, Bren, do you think you matter to them? To any of them? To _him_?” and he nods at Fjord. “None of these people care about _you_ ,” Ikithon whispers, leaning in. “They only care about what you can do for them. The people you can kill in their name. You know this.”

Shaking, Caleb stares at him, wisps of smoke rising from his sleeves and collar. “You’re wrong,” he manages.

“Am I?” snaps Ikithon. “I know you, Bren, better than any of them, because your story is the same as mine!”

 _Don’t listen to him_ , thinks Bren frantically. _He’s lying he’s lying he’s lying –_

“A young man, with more talent and ambition than opportunity, plucked from obscurity and brought to erudition,” continues Ikithon fervently, spittle on his lower lip. “Trained to be at his very best, at all times, to make the Empire a safer place. Tasked with ensuring the safety of the rabble around them –”

“ _I’m not like you,_ ” growls Caleb.

“You are exactly like me!” shouts Ikithon, banging his fist on the table, and the porcelain rattles. “You and I, Bren, we are the only two who understand each other –”

“Now, now,” says Fjord casually, but Bren can hear the burning anger underneath. “How about we keep it civil, here.”

Ikithon glares at him, fingers twitching like he wants to cast a spell. “Oh,” says Fjord, “I bet you want me to shut up, don’t you.”

“I would not presume,” says Ikithon through tight lips. “Would you like more biscuits?”

Arms folded, Fjord says, “Nah, I’m good. Thanks,” and makes a show of brushing crumbs off his sleeve.

The lines around Ikithon’s mouth and nose deepen with distaste, and he sips his tea again. “As I was saying, my dear Bren,” Ikithon says, the pleasant veneer sliding back over his face, “you and I are very much alike.”

Caleb glares at him. There are little silver forks and spoons on the table, but no knives. The tines of a fork could do some damage, though. “I see that look in your eyes, Bren,” chides Ikithon over his cup of tea. “Don’t try anything. We may not be in my office, but I do still have wards in place.”

“Do you?” says Fjord casually.

“Yes,” snaps Ikithon. “I set them personally when I arrived, and –” He waves a hand through the air and stops short, eyes wide. His upper lip pulls back over his teeth as he gestures again, but no arcane sparks fly off his fingers. “What did you _do_?”

Smirking, Fjord pulls a tiny, empty glass vial out of his sleeve. A few droplets of gray-flecked liquid still cling to it as he waggles the vial at Ikithon. “Lead,” says Fjord. “Ground fine and mixed in water and slipped in your tea when you weren’t lookin’.”

“ _You –_ ” snarls Ikithon, clawing at the table as he leans towards Fjord. “You filthy half-breed, you mongrel, how dare you –”

Bren leaps up and grabs Ikithon by the front of his robes, dragging him out of his chair. “Do not,” he growls, “call him that ever again.” Sparks fly off his residuum, whirling through the air.

Despite the fear in his eyes, Ikithon forces a chuckle out through his long teeth. “You always were a sensitive boy, my Bren –”

“That’s not my name,” snarls Caleb, shaking with anger. His heart hammers in his chest, the residuum blazing hot.

“Come back with me,” croons Ikithon, and reaches up to touch Bren’s cheek. “Come back to where you belong, Bren, and everything will be okay –”

“ _That’s not my name!_ ” screams Caleb, and punches Ikithon in the face.

Ikithon grunts and staggers back, and before he can recover Bren punches him again, sending Ikithon to the ground. “You!” howls Caleb, dropping to his knees over Ikithon and striking him across the face again. “You stole my life, you stole my mind, you _raped_ me –”

Stammering, Ikithon tries weakly to shield his face but Bren knocks his hands aside, punching him again, and again, and again until his knuckles split with pain and fire roars inside him, every awful thing Ikithon did, every violating touch, every poisonous word, the scars and the crystals and the chains and the dark and the children of Rerik scream and Caleb’s parents scream and Bren screams with them, flames bursting in the trees around the clearing. His fists hit Ikithon’s face with meaty smacks and the snap of bone against bone, blood running slick over his knuckles, and Ikithon blubbers and begs. “Please – Bren – _Caleb_ –”

Caleb yells and hits Ikithon over, and over, and over, until he realizes Ikithon isn’t moving anymore. Trembling, Bren stares down as Ikithon whines weakly, his face mangled and swollen, blood bubbling between his lips. Fire roars and crackles across the treetops, sparks flying on the hot wind, and the two horses whinny nervously in the middle of the clearing. Caleb’s hands shake, blood dripping from his split knuckles.

“Hey,” says Fjord softly, his hand coming down on Bren’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. I got you.”

Gasping, Caleb shakes and shakes and Fjord pulls Bren back against his chest and Caleb clings to him as Fjord wraps his arms around Bren. “It’s okay,” says Fjord, cradling Caleb, as Ikithon groans a few feet away. “You did it, darlin’. It’s over now.”

Bren wraps his arms around Fjord’s neck, burying his face in his shoulder, and Fjord’s arms are strong and solid around him and he smells like leather and blood as sparks swirl around them. The fear and grief and anger and shame swell up in Caleb until they burst out in one sob after another, and he cries. He cries until his face is sore and Fjord’s cloak soaked on his shoulder and the trees ring with the sound of all the dark twisted nastiness inside him made manifest. Fjord just holds Bren close, stroking his hair back, and murmurs, “Easy, easy. It’s over. He ain’t gonna hurt you no more.”

At last, Caleb cries himself out and huddles limp in Fjord’s arms, feeling worn out and feverish. Pulling a scarf out from under his collar, Fjord tears it in two and tenderly bandages Caleb’s knuckles, first the right hand, then the left. “Thank you,” says Caleb hoarsely, the last few tears rolling down his cheeks.

Fjord smiles ruefully, kissing Caleb’s fingers. “Don’t mention it.”

A choked sound of pain catches Caleb’s notice, and he looks over to where Ikithon still lies on the ground, struggling for air. “Well,” Caleb rasps, still leaning against Fjord. “What are we to do with him?”

“Personally? I’d like to kill him long and slow, make him really suffer,” says Fjord, voice burning darkly as he cocks an eyebrow at Ikithon. “But it’s up to you.”

Caleb stares at Ikithon, shaking again. “He might know how to remove the residuum.”

“That’s true,” says Fjord, drawing out the words cautiously. “He might.”

Slowly, Caleb gets to his feet, walking over to the broken body of his former master. Ikithon stares up at him with one eye barely open, renewed fear crossing his mangled face. “Please,” he forces through cracked teeth and bleeding lips, holding up one trembling hand. “Bren. Please. I can… I can save you…” He is just an old man. An old, injured man, lying small and broken on the grass.

Anger as grim and implacable as wildfire sweeps over Caleb’s body, and for once, his mind is crystal clear. “I don’t want anything from you,” he says, and sets Ikithon on fire.

In his mercy, Caleb makes it quick. The flames roar high, and Ikithon screams, and screams, and then falls silent. When Caleb lets the fire die down, only a blackened corpse is left.

Sighing heavily, Fjord steps up beside Caleb, his hand sliding around his waist. “Well,” he says. “That’s it.” Caleb grunts. “You think you could do somethin’ about all the, uh…” and Fjord gestures to the flames raging through the forest.

“Oh,” murmurs Caleb, looking around. “Right,” and stretches out his hands. He’s not used to putting out flames, but Fjord’s touch on the small of his back is like a pool of still water, ripples of calm spreading outwards. The flames grow lower, and lower, and lower, until only embers smolder fitfully on the charred ground. Caleb blinks, eyes adjusting to the darkness, his nose full of the smell of smoke.

With a snort, Frumpkin approaches, the Beast following warily behind. Caleb touches fingers to the soft muzzle of his horse, feeling a strange, trembling sense of newness, as if all his armor has burned away. “C’mon,” says Fjord, and kisses Caleb’s hair, and Caleb leans wearily against him. “Let’s go home.”


	26. Epilogue

“Oh,” says Fjord, as he gets into his bunk on the _Leviathan_ , waves lapping gently against the ship’s hull as she makes her way south to Nicodranas. “Forgot to tell you. Jester sent a message to Lutig today, sounds like the rebellion’s doing well. A lot of other Zemnians are supportin’ them after the Battle of Geburtout Forest. And hostilities on the eastern border are pickin’ up, so the Empire’s got their hands full with Xorhas too.”

“Ah.” Caleb pulls his shirt off over his head and folds it up, setting it aside atop his chest of possessions. “Good.”

“Still no sign of Astrid, though.”

“She will be found when she wants to be.” Caleb slides in under the blanket next to Fjord, who curls up behind him, still sometimes marveling that he can do this. That Caleb is really here, in his arms, _with_ him. Fjord plants a kiss behind Caleb’s ear and Caleb chuckles, adjusting to a more comfortable position. “Which I do not think will be for a very, very long time.”

Pulling Caleb in a little closer, Fjord says, “Fine by me.” The jealous worm in his side would be perfectly happy if they never saw Astrid again, though he tries to ignore that uncharitable thought. She was Caleb’s friend, once.

But Caleb picks up on the possessiveness in his voice and rolls over to face Fjord. “Are you jealous?” he snorts.

“A bit,” Fjord admits wryly, rubbing his thumb over Caleb’s side.

Smiling, Caleb touches his knuckle to Fjord’s lower lip. “You are very endearing,” he says.

Fjord laughs. “I’m glad you see it that way.”

It takes Fjord a while to drift to sleep, Caleb warm in his arms, the _Leviathan_ gliding over the ocean. He’s slipping into unconsciousness when sudden vertigo jolts him awake and Fjord twitches, searching the dark cabin instinctively. Everything seems as it should be, his furniture in place, the ship creaking quietly, the golden glow of the moon reflecting off the ocean…

Frowning, Fjord slowly and carefully slides out of bed, managing not to wake Caleb. Padding across the empty cabin on bare feet, Fjord goes to the window. That strange yellow light shines oily on the dark rolling water, and Fjord presses his face to the window, trying to find an angle to see the moon.

The glass vanishes and Fjord falls through the window with a yelp, tumbling into the ocean.

He plunges into black water, bubbles swarming around him, the surface suddenly gone and shafts of yellow light surrounding him. Fjord gasps, water filling his lungs, but he can still breathe, and then the current grabs him.

Yanked sideways through the ocean, Fjord tries desperately to swim free but the rushing water is inescapable. His vision blurs, yellow light and black water rushing past him until he can’t see and can’t move and all he hears is the rushing of waves –

The current flings Fjord out into stillness and up into the air, the night sky impossibly close above him and the black ocean stretching into the distance. Catching his breath, Fjord gazes over the sea to where a yellow light shines on the horizon, like a star just above the waves.

As Fjord gazes at the light, he sees more and more detail about it, as if his vision endlessly telescopes without him moving. The dark shape of a familiar island rises above the water, and Fjord’s heart aches with absence at the sight of Darktow. Above the cliffs, the yellow light shines from the entrance to the Plank King’s roost. The doors to the caves are open, that same golden glow shining on the rocky walls of the hallway that leads deeper into the mountain. There sits Wyatt Marinoss on his throne, boulderlike shoulders hunched and a wicked grin on his face, the eye of Uk’atoa gleaming in his forehead.

 _PROVOKE_.

Fjord catches his breath, a shiver running down his spine. “Am I supposed to take it?” he asks.

 _GROW_.

Fjord’s hand lifts almost of its own accord, reaching out as if he could just pluck the eye from the Plank King. Power tingles at his fingertips, just out of reach, and Fjord growls quietly.

_CONSUME._

“I can,” promises Fjord, “and I will. But I have to do it right. Just give me some time.”

_I AM AS OLD AS THE SEA, FJORD TUSKTOOTH. I HAVE PLENTY OF TIME._

Fjord starts awake in the darkness of the cabin, his heart pounding in his chest and sweat beading on his forehead, Uk’atoa’s words echoing in his head. The moonlight on the waves outside is faint and silver, the ship creaking quietly. “Fjord?” murmurs Caleb sleepily, stirring. “What is it?”

Each breath in Fjord’s chest reverberates like a wave on the shore. “Nothing,” he says distantly, staring at his cabin without seeing it. “Just a dream.”

\--

The sea wind blowing in his hair, Caleb joins Fjord at the wheel, gazing out over the cerulean waves. “We got good winds,” says Fjord, pleased, his arms resting between the wooden spokes. “We’ll be at Nicodranas soon.”

“And from there to Darktow?”

“Mm-hm.” Fjord smiles slightly, his gaze on the horizon ahead of him. “It’ll be good to be home.”

 _Home_ , thinks Caleb, the white sails billowing in the breeze, Beau and Caduceus practicing with their staffs on the deck while Molly and Jester lounge nearby and watch appreciatively, Yasha retying rigging, Nott keeping watch in the crow’s nest, the rest of the crew going about their tasks. Caleb’s not sure what home is anymore, but he thinks it might be here. He looks over at Fjord, at the little smile on his handsome face, at the streaks of silver in his black hair and beard and the relaxed tilt of his shoulders and hips, and in that moment he loves him fully and without reservation –

A slight but sharp pain twinges in Caleb’s chest, over his heart, and he freezes. But the pain is gone as quickly as it came, and Caleb exhales slowly. “Ja,” he says, and smiles up at Fjord. “Home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much to everyone who read this fic! This was a monumental task, by far the longest and one of the most emotionally taxing things I’ve written, and each of you who gave kudos, commented, subscribed, or bookmarked made it just a little bit easier to keep going. Thank you again! 
> 
> As far as the next installments, PART III: ARIEL will be a much lighter and shorter interlude, and will be posted this spring. PART IV: THE ISLAND will be closer to this and PART I in length and tone, and won’t start for at least the next six months, possibly more. Until then, don’t forget to love each other, and is it Thursday yet? 🌊🔥


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